


Fire and Ice

by Keesha



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-02-19 05:02:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 58,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13116600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keesha/pseuds/Keesha
Summary: A cold winter's mission tests the Musketeers as they try to get home for the holidays.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My annual Christmas offering. Complete. Twenty-six chapters and an epilogue. Should have posted sooner so it ended on Christmas, but life got in the way. Huge kudo to Mountain Cat who finds my errors and suggests great plot points when I am stuck. If you ever saw my rough drafts you'd know she is an angel. Enjoy. Please review. And Happy Holidays! BTW - This does not follow the official timeline. I have rearranged some events.

CHAPTER 1  
The scowl on Athos’ face deepened as he marched the struggling prisoner to the entrance of the foreboding Chatelet, a hand firmly clamped on the back of the man’s collar. The musketeer would have much rather had his hand wrapped around the criminal's scrawny neck in a choke hold, but he restrained himself - barely. The detainee was despicable in every sense of the word: loathsome, hateful, detestable, abhorrent, heinous, vile, shameful, rotten and beastly. This man was so offensive that Athos had come within seconds of killing him outright and delivering a corpse as the end result of this mission. It was only his brothers’ firm persistence and his own damnable sense of honor that had stopped him from outright murdering this monstrous man. Athos knew his brothers were right; it wasn’t his job to punish this man for his crimes, but it didn’t make it any more palatable.

Athos roughly shoved the prisoner at one of the Red Guards and was turning to leave when the criminal screamed, “This isn’t over Musketeer. We will meet again and when we do, I will kill you!”

Athos swung around and marched up to within inches of the prisoner’s face. “Mark my words. The only place our paths will cross again is at your hanging.” 

The air between Athos and the criminal became electrified and Porthos hurriedly moved to Athos’ side, grabbed him by the bicep and yanked him away. They didn’t need Athos doing something stupid in front of the Red Guards. Aramis and d’Artagnan shepherded the rest of their prisoners to the prison’s gate, handed them over then turned away.

“Let’s go, Athos,” Porthos growled in his ear. “He ain’t worth it.”

With a final glare at the scum, Athos stalked off to his horse, Roger, mounted and rode off, not even waiting for his brethren to join him.

“Athos is still unsettled from this mission, isn’t he.” d’Artagnan observed to Aramis and Porthos as they made their way over to their own horses.

“Yes, I think our usually unflappable Lieutenant is in a rather foul mood,” Aramis answered as he prepared to mount. “Not that that scum-of-the-earth we just brought here isn’t enough to spoil anyone’s day. But delivering him to his justice doesn’t seem to have sweetened out Comte’s mood.”

“Oi,” Porthos agreed as he pulled himself in his saddle. “What that man, the prisoner, did to those people, the women, the children, it was…” Porthos couldn’t even come up with a word and merely shuddered as his mind slid back to the carnage they had seen in the manor house. “And him, being nobility and all.”

D’Artagnan, who had mounted, urged his horse into a walk, heading back towards the garrison with Porthos and the now mounted Aramis at his side. “It was disgusting and disturbing. It will haunt me, I suspect all of us, but it seems to have hit Athos really hard.”

Brushing a stray lock of hair out of his eyes, Aramis decided he really needed to get his hair cut. “Perhaps, because Gerard Daumont, like our dear Athos, is nobility.”

Grimacing, Porthos shook his head. “Dunno. Not sure that is it. Somehow, this seemed more personal than that.” Of all his brothers, it was often the streetfighter that was best able decipher the enigmatic Athos. 

“When we get back to the garrison, we shall simply ask him. I’m sure Athos will happily enlighten us.” Aramis’ breezy manner of making this announcement made his brothers smile, as they knew the chance of Athos telling them anything was very low. “Or we’ll get him incredibility drunk and see if we can trick him into spilling his secrets.”

“That’s more like it,” the streetfighter grunted as they rode under the garrison’s arched entryway. 

As the three musketeers entered the courtyard, they saw the black storm cloud that was Athos standing at the base of the stairs to the Captain’s office. When he noticed them, he glowered in their direction, as if he had been waiting for them for hours, not less than five minutes.

The three swung down from their horses and handed them off to the stable lads before heading in Athos’ direction. While they would have liked to quench their thirst before reporting to the Captain, Athos gave them no chance. The moment they drew near, he spun around and stomped up the stairs. They really didn’t want to risk their Lieutenant’s ire if they didn’t do the same, so with a soft sigh, they trudged up the wooden flight after him.

By the time they were assembled in front of the Captain’s desk, it seemed the swordsman had gotten his wayward emotions under control because the report he presented to the Captain was given in a low-pitched, non-emotional monotone. The brothers tried not to stare at their fourth as he presented his dry account of what was the most horrific event they had seen in many years. Less than two hours ago, Athos had been ready to dispatch the corrupt noble, personally, by his own hand, to the depths of hell. Now he was reciting the man's crimes as if they were a supply list. One would have almost thought Athos had not been affected by the mission, unless they knew him well, which both his brothers and the Captain did. 

Captain Treville had noticed while his second had offered up his dry verbal accounting that the man’s fists were clenched at his side, there were deep lines etched around his expressive green eyes, and the tone used was too flat. Athos was stoical, but this was beyond that; this was a man trying very hard to appear unaffected, even though he had been deeply shaken. Treville knew if he asked Athos about his well-being, his Lieutenant would insist that he was fine. And it would be a lie. 

The Captain, not unaware of his second’s habit of losing himself in drink when emotionally compromised, debated what to do to halt that destructive behavior before it appeared. As his eyes roamed over his four musketeers searching for a solution, he noted a few light gashes on their persons and an idea began to form. Athos drank to forget and sleep, but a tired mind and body would also lead to the same state. 

“It seems your opponents have marked you some,” Treville stated with a hint of disappointment in his voice. “I thought you said there were only six of them. Not overwhelming odds, it seems to me.” 

Four sets of eyes remained fixed on the wall behind him, not reacting to their commander’s comment. 

“Perhaps your swordsmanship skills are getting a bit rusty, gentlemen,” the Captain goaded further. 

The only reaction he got to that was a slight tightening of the tension in their jaw line. He was impressed. They were all learning to control their emotions as well as their de facto leader, Athos. 

“For the reminder of the afternoon, you will spar amongst yourselves and with whomever is not on duty. I expect you to push yourself to your limits. I will not have it said that the King’s Musketeers are sloppy swordsmen. Am I making myself clear?”

Four head bobbed quickly to indicate his message had been received. 

“Dismissed.” 

The four turned nearly as one to head for the door, with Athos being first out and Aramis bringing up in the rear. Treville tapped Aramis’ arm. “A word,” he requested as the others left the room. Aramis halted and faced his commander, awaiting his question. 

“Are any of you more hurt than appearances suggest?” Treville inquired of the medic-musketeer.

“No, Captain. Honestly, the scratches we received are nothing out of the ordinary. However, I think our enforced afternoon of sparring isn’t about skills improvement,” Aramis wisely surmised as he gazed at his Captain, waiting for confirmation he was correct. 

Treville move back towards his desk, running a hand through his short-cropped hair. “It’s not. You have all been marked by this assignment, but, I fear not so much physically as emotionally. And Athos, even more so.”

Aramis relaxed his tense stance as the Captain hit upon the very thing he too was concerned about. “It was awful, Captain. What was done to those people. And you are indeed correct in that it has affected all of us, but especially Athos.” 

The marksman drew quiet, debating how much he wanted to reveal to his Captain. Treville, in many ways had served as their father figure and saved them from destroying their own lives. He had protected them from their enemies as well as their own stupidity and had beaten sense into them when the situation required. Aramis had no reason not to trust the Captain now, any more so than the past, so he decided to tell him the truth of what happened on the mission. 

“If Porthos hadn’t stopped him, Athos would have killed Gerard Daumont. And it would have been murder, clean and simple. Daumont had surrendered, was disarmed, and kneeling in the dirt. He was no threat at that point. Athos walked over to him, shoved his pistol against the man’s forehead and was about to pull the trigger. I still don’t know if Athos actually did pull the trigger because the gun went off when Porthos knocked Athos aside. But I remain unsure if it was because Porthos hit Athos’ arm or if Athos had already pulled the trigger. Luckily, the bullet missed Daumont’s head.”

Holding up a hand to forestall the question he knew was coming, Aramis added, “I have no idea why Athos seems to be taking this so hard, almost personally. And of course, he has not shared with us.” 

Treville could tell by the expression on Aramis’ face the marksman was as concerned as he. “I don’t want Athos falling back on his default method for dealing with his emotions.”

“Drinking,” Aramis said flatly as the Captain nodded in agreement.

“It’s going to kill him someday. So, I want Athos so worn out by the end of the day from sparring that Porthos has to carry him to bed. He can’t have an ounce of energy left to drink,” the Captain instructed Aramis. 

“Are we allowed to accidently knock him out?” Aramis asked, half-joking, half-serious.

Treville paused a moment, almost as if he were considering the peculiar request. “I expect all four of you at muster tomorrow, able to carry out your duties,” he finally answered, leaving it a little open ended in Aramis' mind.

“Understood,” Aramis replied smartly. Unconsciously he had straightened his stance as he received the order from his Captain. 

Treville seemed almost uncharacteristically anxious as he shifted his gaze to stare out the window. “I’m worried, Aramis. Since Athos learned his wife was the King’s mistress, he has been drinking way too much again. Like in the beginning. And I don’t know how to stop him short of locking him in a cell. I tried talking to him, but it didn’t go well. He polite thanked me for my concern, but said everything was fine.” 

Aramis couldn’t help letting a small guff escape his lips. “Athos’ idea of ‘fine,' when it comes to his health and well-being, is, how shall I say this, not quite that of a sane man.”

Treville refocused on Aramis, reaching over a hand and placing it on the musketeer’s shoulder. “I’d rather not have Athos doing something stupid that gets him hanged by our King.”

The marksman was startled for a moment, not having thought about that aspect of his friend’s behavior. “He has been shaken by the reappearance of Milady. The other day when we were on assignment, he rode off when he saw her, saying he couldn’t be there.” Realizing what he had just said, he raised his eyes to look sheepishly at his Captain. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned that.”

Treville, gave him a half-smile as he patted the marksman on the shoulder before dropping his hand. “He came back here, to watch over me, he said. Showed up with a half-empty wine bottle and two glasses. We watched the eclipse. Then she showed up. He didn’t trust her, or want to work with her. But I knew it was our best chance to rescue the King and Queen, so I took it.” 

The Captain walked over to his desk, pushed a few papers aside and leaned on it. “I knew I was hurting him when I accepted her help and I knew he would let me do it in the name of duty. I had to put his well-being second to that of the King.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Even then, she was using his emotions against him. She ordered him around. Played on him. Even got him to help her onto her horse; like an obedient dog.”

“But later, she lost it all,” Aramis reminded his Captain. “The King removed her from her position.”

“Good for the nation, yes. And the Queen, of course. But good for Athos?” Treville halted for a beat. “I’m not so sure, for she went from untouchable, unattainable, to available. And I fear he doesn’t know how to handle that.” 

Considering his Captain's words, Aramis slowly nodded. "I know what it is like to have something that is unattainable. I don’t know what I would do if she became attainable."

"No offense, but I hope I never live to see that day," Treville declared loyally. "I understand your pain, Aramis, I do. But for France.... I don't wish to go through that again."

A contemplative silence fell over the two, each lost in his own memories of the past. Finally, Treville broke the hush saying, “No good will come of any of this."

Aramis wasn't sure how to interpret the cryptic, open ended remark, so he simply replied, "We'll watch over him. He's our brother." With a nod, he turned and left the room, heading down the stairs where he found two of his three brothers sitting at their usual table.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me get this up before I get involved in the holiday prep and forget! Safe and happy holiday season to all.

CHAPTER 2  
"Please don't tell me we've lost Athos already. The Captain won't be pleased," Aramis sighed when he reached the table where only d’Artagnan and Porthos were sitting. When the other two men glanced up at him, confused, Aramis told them of Treville's concern that Athos was going to lose himself in drink. "We are to do everything in our power to exhaust him to the point he can't go drinking."

"Maybe this won't be so hard. Athos is already over there, challenging Henri and Pierre," d'Artagnan pointed out, gesturing with his chin to the side of the courtyard where Athos was engaged in fighting off the two other Musketeers, both of whom, in their own right, were accomplished swordsmen.

"He didn't start out easy did he," Aramis noted as he poured a glass of water and gratefully chugged it down. Taking an apple next, he declared, "Fortify yourselves, for we have a long afternoon ahead of us. One, I fear, based on Athos' surly mood, that will add to our collection of cuts and bruises. I don’t think he will be going easy on anyone."

And a long afternoon it was as Athos appeared to be in one hundred percent agreement with Treville's plan. The swordsman fought dual after dual, one on one, many on one, refusing to rest more than a few minutes between bouts. His body was dripping sweat and his wavy hair plastered to his head. When his breathing at one point became noticeably labored and his footwork stumbling, Aramis forced the swordsman to take a break before he accidently hurt someone or got hurt himself. The Captain had said exhaustion, not execution. 

During his enforced rest period, his brothers made sure there was no wine available, but plenty of water. The water was drunk without any comment, but all food was refused. If Athos knew what they were up to, he didn't say. In fact, other than saying 'yield' and 'next' he hadn't spoken at all since they left the Captain's office. 

Athos was intensity personified. During a later match against d'Artagnan, his protégée and near equal, an awed hush fell over the spectators as they watched a legend and a soon to be legend cross swords. There was no quarter given; rapiers and main gauches flashing faster than the eye could track. Meticulous footwork and exquisite balance, followed by brawling and backhands to the face. Both Musketeers were throwing everything they knew about fighting into this dual and finally the inevitable happened. Faster than anyone could follow, Athos made d'Artagnan’s blade fly through the air while he pressed his own main gauche to the younger man's neck. 

"Yield," the swordsman barked scraping the blade slightly against the Gascon's throat as if he were shaving it. 

"I yield," d'Artagnan quietly said, staring at his mentor's eyes which still held the fury of battle within them. The young musketeer was a little frightened, almost feeling as if Athos had lost his grip on reality. 

After a few very tense moments, Athos removed his blade from the younger musketeer's throat, shoving him away with his forearm before sheathing his dagger behind his back. Athos’ eyes swept the area to see who would be next, but after that display, none were willing to step forward. 

"No one?" Athos growled, his tone as dangerous as his fighting. “Fine.” He sheathed his sword and flicked the hair out of his eyes with a quick head shake. As he started to stalk away, he found his path blocked by Porthos.

“Where are you going?” the solid mass of a man inquired.

“Because,” Aramis added as he stepped up next to the streetfighter, “if it isn’t to take a bath I’d rethink your decision.”

D’Artagnan joined the group so they now formed a semi-circle around Athos. 

Drawing his sword, he demanded, "Let's do this," and launched into an attack that had the other three Musketeers stepping back and swiftly drawing their own blades, surprised at his fury. 

"He does know we are not the bad guys," Aramis questioned Porthos as he avoided another slash of Athos' blade.

“I’m not sure he knows who he is,” d’Artagnan chimed in, having seen that odd look in his brother’s eyes a few minutes earlier. 

The swordsman pressed them harder and harder, not giving an inch. By unspoken agreement, the three Musketeers began pushing back against Athos, driving him step by step backwards. Stumbling, Athos was driven to his knees, then knocked on his back, though he quickly rolled and struggled to his feet, breathing like a spent horse. 

"Fight me, damn it," he yelled as he launched a new attack on his brothers, who easily avoid his erratic swing. Overbalanced, Athos dropped to his knees once more, and stayed there, head bowed, trembling and panting. 

Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan put up their swords. "Enough, Athos," the marksman quietly said to the kneeling form on the ground of the courtyard. 

His rapier fell from his numb fingers to the dirt, as Athos remained hunched over, shaking with what appeared to be fatigue. Then, without warning, he sprang to his feet and launched his body at Aramis, catching him in his middle. Both men went sprawling in the sand, with Athos landing on top. Porthos took three strides and grabbed Athos by the back of his shirt and the waist of his pants, hauling him off of the marksman and dragging him to his feet. Wrapping one of his powerful arms around the swordsman's middle, Porthos tried to subdue Athos. However, the man wasn’t done fighting yet; d’Artagnan stepped over to assist Porthos and finally, they subdued their brother. 

Slowly, Aramis climbed to his feet and walked over to where Athos was being restrained by his brothers. The green eyes narrowed, tracking him as he came close. "We're going to my room now, and you’re going to let me clean the gashes you have acquired," Aramis spoke softly, so no one but the Inseparables could hear. “This has gone on long enough. I’ll not stand by and watch you hurt someone, or yourself.” Reaching up a hand, he lightly held Athos’ bearded chin. “I understand what you are trying to do, but we will find another way that doesn’t involve drink or hurting yourself.” Letting go, he stepped backwards, nodding to Porthos and d’Artagnan to release their hold and Athos.

Treville, watching silently from his balcony, held his breath as he waited to see how his Lieutenant would respond. This had gotten a lot worse than he anticipated. 

Athos stood very still after being released, staring into Aramis’ brown eyes as if trying to gauge some truth in them. Finally, like a wobbly colt, he took a first step forward and unobtrusively, Porthos was at his side, lending a steadying hand. D’Artagnan gathered Athos’ sword and trailed after the swordsman and the streetfighter as they made their way to Aramis’ quarters. 

With a sigh of relief, Captain Treville watched them walk away before catching the eye of a stable lad and instructing him tell Serge to send food to Aramis’ rooms. 

Once inside Aramis’ generous suite, Athos dropped wearily into a chair and slumped over Aramis’ table, head resting on his folded forearms. Knowing Athos needed some time before he started fussing over him, Aramis sent d’Artagnan to get some buckets of water and set them by the fire to warm. Then he had Porthos and the lad strip so he could examine their wounds from the mission. None were particularly bad, and after the water was warmer, he washed off their wounds and put salves on the worse ones. As it was a warm night, both men didn't bother to put their dirty shirts back on and simply rested in their braies. 

Porthos then waved Aramis towards the bucket, had him strip and returned the favor of checking out his gashes, which, like theirs, were not life threatening. There came a knock on the door and d’Artagnan opened it to find a stable lad with a basket full of food. Thanking the boy, he took the basket and placed it on a nearby trunk, since Athos was still sprawled across the table. 

“Ok, Athos. Your turn.” It took a moment for the man to respond and Aramis wondered if the swordsman had fallen asleep. However, a low moan told him his friend was still awake. 

Sluggishly, Athos propped his head up on his fists and elbows and resignedly looked over at Aramis. “I don’t suppose telling you I’m fine would work.”

Aramis laughed as he walked across the room towards the table. “That hasn’t worked since you gave up your nobility to become a musketeer and I learned you had no clue what the word 'fine' really means.” It was interesting that he thought he saw Athos wince when he mentioned his past life as a Comte. “Strip please, or if you are too tired I’m sure Porthos would be happy to help.”

“Not bloody-likely,” Porthos replied around a mouthful of food. “I’m nice and clean. And I’m eating.” He and d’Artagnan had practically attacked the basket of food the moment the stable boy left. 

“I don’t require any assistance.” Athos straightened, then rose from his chair, surreptitiously using the table to maintain his balance for a passing moment as a wave of exhaustion swept over him. Unfortunately, he didn't think it was going to be enough to keep his nightmares at bay. 

Aramis gestured to the remaining bucket of water by the fire and Athos moved across the room, stripping off his shirt before plunking down on the edge of a chest. Grabbing a rag, he unenthusiastically swiped at his skin. 

“Give me that,” Aramis demanded, practically ripping the rag from the swordsman’s fingers. “You are going to be here all night and these vultures will have eaten all the food by then.”

The other two musketeers had moved the food to the now vacant table and were plowing through it with great abandon. 

“Wine?” Athos asked, his voice holding a slight edge of desperation to it that he hated himself for. He felt Aramis, who was scrubbing at a small slash on his lower back, momentarily stop. Then, as the rag began wiping down his side again, Athos closed his eyes and let his head droop. “I had thought to sleep through exhaustion. Or maybe unconsciousness,” he whispered with a catch in his voice. The rag was removed and another, containing a stinging disinfectant, was applied to his shallow wounds. “But now...I…need…wine.”

"No," Aramis declared softly as he continued to administer to Athos' cuts. "We'll get you through this without a wine induced stupor."

Aramis patted him lightly on the back, rose, walked over to his chest and withdrew a clean shirt. Moving back to where Athos sat, he offered up the shirt. Athos raised his head and accepted the item with a small nod of thanks. Though the room was certainly warm enough to remain topless as d'Artagnan and Porthos had chosen to do, he knew Athos preferred to wear a shirt, especially in public. Porthos had once confided to the marksman that Athos was uncomfortable with the faint scars that lined his back from being whipped, even if the scars were honorably earned. The scars were really quite faint against the swordsman's normally pale skin tones, only becoming more obvious when he tanned. But Aramis understood how physical scars had mental components, so he happily offered up his clean shirt to his brother. 

Athos stood and pulled the soft shirt over his head, fleetly registering it was one of Aramis' good shirts for special occasions. Like a sleepwalker, he shuffled across the room, over to one of the two double beds in Aramis' quarters and sat on the edge. Aramis always had one of the largest rooms in the garrison, which in the long run turned out to be good, as it gave a large enough space for the four Musketeers to bunk down together when required. Long ago the regiment had learned that these four men tended to push the limits, get hurt, and refuse to recover in the garrison's infirmary. So, Aramis, as part of the Inseparables, was never begrudged the spacious accommodations.

Aramis ambled over to the table and took up residence in one of the two empty chairs. "Athos. Come eat."

The swordsman glanced over at the table of food, then gave a minute shake of his head before settling back on the bed, using the whitewashed wall behind it to lean against. He drew his knees to his chest, wrapped his arms around his legs and rested his head on top. He didn't close his eyes, but stared unseeingly at a spot further down the bed's blanket.

Putting a small plate of food aside, in case Athos changed his mind, Aramis began to wolf down his own dinner. Again, he had learned not to press Athos to eat unless he was truly forced to for the swordsman's health. It was another battle where the fallout wasn't worth it. Most of the time, with a few reminders, Athos remembered that his body required sustenance to survive.

In the end, the exercise and exhaustion won out for Athos lay down and fell asleep, snoozing soundly through the night. Aramis eventually crawled into the double bed next to him, while Porthos and d’Artagnan shared the other bed in the room. The night passed peacefully for all.  



	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

A week later, Gerard Daumont was executed for his crimes. The four musketeers were at the hanging, and his brothers wondered how Athos would take it, but the man stood there stoically, a neutral expression on his face as the trapdoor was opened and Daumont met his deserved death. After it was done, Athos had simply turned away and headed back to the garrison. And it seemed, that was that, though the other three did feel that Athos became even more remote than normal.

Summer gave way to autumn and then winter. December turned out to be unusually bitterly cold and snowy. The horses grew shaggy, indicating this weather wasn't going to end any time soon. The musketeers had taken to wearing multiple layers of clothing when they were forced to go on missions in the snowy, icy world, but it seemed no matter what they did, the insidious cold found a way in and chilled their bones.

Aramis and Athos had just returned from a three-day journey from the coast, exhausted and frigid. They had been grateful to be able to hand their mounts, Roger and Fidget, over to the stable lads, upon their arrival in the garrison. The horses were as worn-out as the riders from traveling on the treacherous, snowy roads between Le Havre and Paris.

The two frozen musketeers shuffled into the mess hall, which was blissfully warm from the roaring fire and the men eating a midday meal within its four walls. Porthos and d'Artagnan spotted their frozen brothers the minute they stepped through the door. One look at them and the two stood up, went to greet them and then ushered them to the chairs closest to the fire. Porthos only had to tilt his head slightly to get the two musketeers occupying the chairs to relocate. The swordsman and the marksman were so tired and grateful to be next to something warm they didn't even feel guilty about ousting the former occupants of the chairs.

Mulled wine in warm mugs was handed to them and the two shivering musketeers stripped off their gloves and wrapped their achy fingers around the pleasantly warm metal. Food also appeared, hot soup, which felt marvelous as it burned down their throats to land in their empty bellies, where its warmth seemed to seep into the very core of their being.

"Bad trip?" d'Artagnan asked as he settled on a footstool near the left side of Athos' chair. The Comte nodded, but said nothing as he held the metal cup filled with wine tightly between his two chilly hands.

It was Aramis who answered, between spoonsful of soup. "Stupid harbor master. Didn't believe it was the King's seal. Then we were kept waiting on the cold, wind-swept docks forever while they located the parcel on the ship. You'd think they'd be a bit more careful with a gift from the King of England to the King of France."

"What was it?" Porthos asked with curiosity as he munched on a roll slathered with creamy butter.

Aramis shrugged. "Don't know. It was in a sealed box. About this big." He spread his fingers wide to indicate the length of the box.

"It was a pocket watch. Quite ornate. Jeweled," Athos offered up. When his brothers all turned to look at him, he gave an indifferent shrug. "The box may have slipped from my cold fingers and opened upon falling to the ground."

"Or you may have opened it to see what was inside," Porthos suggested slyly, which earned him a small grin from Athos.

"That, I suppose, is another …possibility."

The marksman was amazed to hear Athos conversing, as he had been distracted and uncommunicative on the journey, even by his standards. When Aramis had asked why, Athos had refused to enlighten him. Since it was so cold and miserable, Aramis had let it drop and simply focused on staying warm.

Before they could ask any more questions, Captain Treville entered the dining hall. He stood in the doorway, scanning the room until his eyes lit on the four by the fireplace. Purposely, he moved in their direction.

"I got a bad feeling about this," Porthos groused softly to his companions as they watched their commander approach.

Athos watched As the Captain came over to their chairs, and he got a uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach that his plans were about to be ruined. He knew he should not hE delayed for so long.

"Athos, Aramis. You're back," Treville said without a preamble.

"Yes. The package has been delivered safely into the hands of the King," Athos answered smartly, unconsciously straightening up in his chair as he gave his brief report. "Forgive us, but we stopped to warm ourselves, before coming to your office to report."

The Captain didn't appear upset by their delay in reporting. "And you had no troubles?"

Athos gave a shrug. "A rather illiterate harbor master, a somewhat surly ship's Captain and a few inept bandits. Nothing we couldn't handle."

"Good. I hate to say this, gentlemen, but I need to send you on another mission."

"Tomorrow?" d'Artagnan asked without much hope.

"Now," came the Captain's expected reply.

"But it's cold out there," a very tired Aramis blurted out before ducking his head in way of an apology for his uncharacteristic whining.

The Captain had the decency to appear somewhat remorseful. "I know. And I'm sorry. I know you must be cold and exhausted, but duty calls. And you four are the most suited for this task."

"What is it?" Athos asked in a resigned voice. Whatever it was, he hoped it was of short duration. Christmas was coming and he had things he needed to accomplish.

"Delivery. Of a very sensitive missive. To the Abbey of Saint-Germain d'Auxerre. You must leave immediately."

Porthos groaned and shook his head. "That's a good day's ride from here and fairly remote. And it's snowing again. Look!"

All the heads turned to look out the window where they could see falling snow in the mostly empty courtyard.

"I'm sorry. But it's urgent and you four are the only ones I trust with the delivery of this letter," the Captain stated firmly.

"What exactly is in this missive and to whom are we delivering it?" Athos asked their commander, reaching for his mulled wine and downing it in one gulp.

"I can't divulge any of that information other than to say it has to be delivered to the Abbott and only the Abbott. And it has to be there by tomorrow night."

"We will do…our duty," Athos formally stated, eyeing the others as if he dared them to complain any further. "Aramis and I will require new mounts. Our horses are too worn out to be asked to go on the road again this soon."

While he kept his face neutral, he was very unhappy about this trip because it was taking him away from Paris once again. Christmas was not that many days away and he'd barely had any time to gather the gifts from Pére Noël that he would leave in the inn in Pinon for the children of the village. He had not missed a year since it became his duty and he'd be damned if he faltered now. Too many times he'd disgraced his family name. He'd simply have to make sure this trip was over as swiftly as possible, get back to Paris, purchase the toys, food, and clothes and deliver them, in secret, on time. Duty.

"Take whichever horses you want from the reserve," the Captain agreed. No one mentioned that the horses' riders were also too exhausted to be going on the road again so soon. Duty.

"Finish your meal and then hit the road. Athos, stop by my office for the package." With that, the Captain turned and left the dining hall. An eddy of cold swirled into the room upon his departure not letting anyone forget how chilly it was outside.

Aramis sent d'Artagnan off to get him another bowl of warm soup and more bread. Athos contented himself by draining glasses of warm wine until Aramis gave him an evil eye.

"Food, Athos. Not just wine," he suggested in a tone that was closer to an order.

"If you add wine, or any alcohol, to a liquid, it takes longer for it to freeze," the Comte educated the rest of them.

"As fascinating a fact as that is, I don't see the point in relation to you not eating," Aramis pointed out as he finished up his second bowl of soup and was using the bread to wipe the vessel clean.

"I am diluting my blood so it won't freeze so quickly once we are back on the road," the swordsman patiently explained.

Aramis threw a piece of bread at him, which out of instinct, Athos caught. "Eat!"

With a shrug, Athos put down his wine and picked up a bowl of soup, polishing it off quickly along with the hunk of bread Aramis had tossed at him. He drained his wine cup for the last time, then stood. "Gentlemen, let's go."


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

The horses left in the stable were not the best, but Athos and Aramis had no choice, Roger and Fidget were too tired and to ride them would put all at risk. Aramis choose a younger mare who was strong and swift, but a little flighty. Athos choose an experienced gelding, who had seen a lot and wasn't fazed by much, except being crowded by other horses. D'Artagnan made a comment about their choices of horses being much like their own personalities, which earned him a nasty glare.

When they left, the snow was coming down steadily, covering the already frozen streets of Paris with a clean white blanket. However, not soon after it stopped it would be trampled and dirty; snow just didn't stay pristine very long in a crowded city.

Once out the city gate, the snow ceased and the clouds broke up. The snow was blindingly white in the afternoon sun, making the musketeers squint. Aramis and Athos found the bright light almost painful to their sleep deprived bodies. Once the road wound into the woods, it was shady and the two found it easier going.

They rode steadily throughout the day, keeping a fairly even pace, even though there were spots on the snow-covered roads that did not offer the best footing for the horses. The garrison's farrier had put so-called snowshoes on many of the musketeers' horses. The U-shaped pieces of metal had ridge-like bumps that helped keep the horse's feet from slipping. However, the shoes were time consuming to make and rarely lasted for more than a single winter, so not every horse had them. As it happened, the two mounts Aramis and Athos chose had not been so equipped. The sleep deprived musketeers failed to consider that and it wasn't until their second break of the day that they discovered their error.

Aramis had been complaining as they went along that the mare, which he had ridden before, seemed less sure of foot than usual. Athos had been thinking the same of his gelding, but he was chalking it up to him being tired and the roads being slick. When they stopped for a quick break, d'Artagnan, who'd been listening to Aramis' complaints, had a thought and a quick inspection of the mare's and gelding's hooves confirmed his theory; they did not have snowshoes like Flip and Zad. They were too far from the garrison to turn back and exchange horses, so they proceeded onward.

Dusk found them on a road that wound its way along the Seine. This section of the river had not frozen over and the turbulent white water tumbled over the rocks that littered the waterway. Though the road was about fifteen feet above the river's edge, the icy waters still made the riders feel even colder. The snowy track had the river on one side and the slant of a steep slope on the other. Not a great choice in the winter because of the possibility of avalanches, which could knock a horse off its feet, was ever present. However, the musketeers knew from reports that the bridge on the main road had collapsed, so this alternative route had to be utilized.

There must have been a water source somewhere higher up the slope, or the sun was melting the snow during the day and refreezing it at night, because the path they followed was very extremely slippery in spots. It was if someone had dumped buckets of water on the ground which had frozen into a sheet of ice. Porthos' and d'Artagnan's horses were dealing well with the icy conditions as they came across them, but the other two horses, with their ordinary shoes, weren't faring as well. They would slide on occasion and bump into their companions, which had Athos' gelding baring his teeth and trying to nip his stablemates. By unspoken agreement, they put more distance between each of them, with d'Artagnan taking lead, followed by Athos, Aramis and Porthos serving as rear guard.

It was getting dark, but the moon was rising and it was a cloudless night now that the snow had stopped, so they had some light by which to ride. Aramis had been doing his best to stay awake for the last few miles, but the coming of darkness was making his eyelids feel as if they weighed a ton. More than once he woke with a jerk, realizing that he had inadvertently drifted off to sleep in the saddle. What he hadn't noticed was his mare was steadily closing the gap between herself and Athos' gelding, who was slowing down with fatigue. Athos felt his gelding fidgeting, but his cold-numbed mind put it down to bad manners.

The four musketeers, in the semi-darkness, didn't realize how far ahead d'Artagnan had gotten and how far behind Porthos had fallen, thanks to an urgent call of nature. The only two horses near each other were the ill-natured gelding and the flighty mare. Aramis drifted off again and his mare moved forward and crowded the gelding, who answered with a kick from his rear foot. However, as the gelding kicked, his front feet slipped on the ice, causing him to lose his balance. Stumbling to his knees, he couldn't get any purchase with his hind feet. The mare, who was too close, hit his fallen form, tumbling over his hindquarters, knocking them both over the edge onto the incline towards the river below.

When Athos felt his mount pitching forward, he only had a spilt second for his fatigued mind to make a decision; ride it out or jump off. If it was Roger, he might have had faith the fleet-footed stallion would regain his feet. But he had serious doubts this older gelding was that nimble, and to have his leg pinned under the horse, or have the animal roll over him, would be disastrous. So as the mare hit the gelding's hindquarters, Athos kicked his feet free of the stirrups, ripped his sword free and tossed it aside as he launched himself from his horse's back.

Aramis departure from his mare was less planned, but being half-asleep worked in his favor because he hit the slippery, snow-covered slope as loose as a rag doll. He slid over the icy ground at a rapid rate, straight for the churning river. His long sword blade caught on a tree and whipped him around so his head was heading downward first. Flailing his arms, he tried to halt his descent, but his scrambling hands could get no purchase. Knowing he was going to end up in the river, he changed his tactics, quickly undoing his weapons belt. He slid right out of it, like a snake shedding its skin, and soon it was left behind. Rolling, he tried to change his trajectory so he wouldn't end up in the river face first. Somewhat successful, he managed to turn sideways and he was even more ecstatic when the mass of his sideways body slowed his descent enough that he didn't end up in the river, but with the help of his boot heels, came to a halt on its very edge. The sound of rushing water filled his ears as he gave up a short prayer of thanks for his deliverance.

Athos hit the ground and attempted to do a shoulder roll, which sent him into an uncontrolled ass over teakettle ride down the snowy slope. It wasn't until he was near the river that he finally was able to gain some control, enough so he didn't slam into Aramis, but rather ended up in a heap next to him.

Aramis opened his eyes when he heard a thump and a groan. It took his numb brain a moment to register that the unmoving black lump next to him was Athos.

"Athos! Are you all right?" he called out, his voice full of concern.

The dry voice that answered him was so Athos, it made him chuckle. "All things considered, I'm fine."

"Given your definition of fine, when would you not be fine?" the marksman inquired somewhat sarcastically.

But Aramis didn't get an answer because his mare, whose descent had been momentarily halted by a small sapling, slammed into him and Athos when the slender tree gave way. Arms scrambling to gain purchase in the snow in a hopeless attempt to avoid being flung into the river, Aramis only managed to grab hold of a piece Athos' leathers. As a unit, they tumbled into the icy cold river and immediately were plunged below its churning surface. Instinctively working as a team, they fought their way back to the surface as the swift current carried them down stream, occasionally bouncing them off the large boulders dotting the river. The water was so cold it already had their limbs going numb from the shock. Aramis felt his hold on Athos' wet doublet slipping.

Athos could feel his brother's hand slipping and he thought they had a better chance of survival staying together. He yelled over his shoulder, "Grab my weapons belt. Wind your hand in it. Sword sheath."

Over the roar of the river, Aramis caught enough words to figure out what Athos was saying. Moving his other hand to help, he felt down Athos' back until he found his belt. Visualizing the way Athos arranged his weapons and pouches, Aramis slid his hand around to the left, locating the empty sword sheath. He inserted his hand, which he could barely feel, into the straps. With some wiggling, he entangled it amongst the straps and buckles where, when he gave a tug, it stayed lodged. They were now, figuratively speaking, joined at the hip.

With his left hand still free, he helped Athos to keep his head above the water and to avoid being slammed into every rock in the river. Twice they tried to make a valiant effort to swim towards one shore or the other, but the current was too strong and was eating up the little energy they had left. They were in a no win situation. The longer they stayed in the river, the colder and weaker they got and yet they didn't have enough reserves left to escape its nefarious icy clutches.

Aramis' free hand, which was resting on Athos' shoulder, suddenly had a weight on top of it. It took his muddled wits a few seconds to work out what was going on, but when he did, a jolt of adrenaline shot through his numb body. Athos had passed out. From what medic had no idea, but he had to rouse him because he could already feel the unconscious man's body beginning to sink in the frigid river's depths.

He thumped on Athos' shoulder as he screamed his brother's name in his ear to no avail. Realizing that wasn't working, he knew he'd have to change his tactics. With a prayer of apology, he pulled himself closer to Athos, reached over his shoulder, past the scarf and down the front of his jacket and shirt, until he reached the sternum. Once his hand was in position, he rubbed with as much pressure as he could muster.

The desired results were achieved as Athos' eyes flew open in response to the pain. However, it took another moment or two, where imminent drowning seemed likely, before Aramis got his hand untangled from Athos' clingy scarf and they managed to get back into a position where their heads remained safely above the waterline. It wasn't easy, for little waves kept splashing them unexpectedly in the face.

Suddenly, and with no warning, they were slammed from behind by a large object, which rammed them into the rock in front of them. Athos hit the rocky outcropping first, but surprisingly felt no pain, which he was momentarily happy about, even though he knew ultimately it was a bad sign. Aramis slammed into Athos' back and the large object crashed into his back. This resulted in Athos getting shoved harder against the rough granite boulder.

The little air left in Athos' lungs was forced out of his body in a whoosh, leaving him gasping for breath like a fish out of water, an apt analogy his numb mind somehow managed to process. In the dim moonlight, he tried to swivel around to see what, besides Aramis, had them pinned to this rock. Aramis was trying to do the same, with a little more success than Athos.

"Holy mother of God," Aramis swore when he finally was able to see what held them captive. It was his mare, who unfortunately had drowned and was now, literally, a deadweight.

"What is it?" Athos asked, after hearing Aramis' exclamation.

"My horse," Aramis replied, his voice filled with angst.

"Can you get her off of us?" He didn't question the animal's condition, having heard the sorrow in Aramis' voice even over the sounds of the river.

Aramis struggled for a minute before realizing he wasn't going to be able to shift the horse. "I can't move her. We're going to have to scooch around the rock until the current carries her off."

"Scooch around the rock says the man between my back and a dead horse," Athos grumbled, even though he knew it was the only choice they had if they didn't want to perish. Twisting and turning his head, he tried to determine which way to go around. To the left he decided. "Left. To the left," he tossed over his shoulder and felt Aramis nod in acknowledgement.

Using his left arm and leg to pull, and his right to push, he dragged his torso across the rock's surface. For the first time since he fell into this freezing cold river, he was glad to be numb. Otherwise, he expected what he was doing would be excruciatingly painful. He'd pay for it later he suspected, that is if they survived this ordeal.

Slowly, he felt them inching their way to the left. Aramis was doing his best to help and try to dislodge the burden on his back. It felt like it took an eternity, and the marksman could feel Athos occasionally laying his head against the rock to catch his breath. Trapped between the living and the dead made Aramis wonder which way this would end and he began praying under his breath. He could feel Athos quivering against him and he knew the man was getting near the end of his strength.

Please God, now, he prayed and suddenly the mare slid off his back and down the river. However, the momentum also dragged him and Athos off the rock and they plunged back into the middle of the waterway. A wave hit them in the face and both men went under. Aramis desperately began to struggle back to the surface, dragging Athos along with him. They broke the surface, sputtering and coughing, which in a manner was a relief as it meant they were still alive.

Once he stopped coughing, Athos turned his head to try and see Aramis over his shoulder. "I can't last much longer." It was time to stop fighting his muddled mind told him. Time for what you have long sought and deserve.

Aramis heard something in Athos' voice he'd rarely heard before, fear and resignation. It scared him to the bone. His brother was giving up.

"No, you don't," Aramis commanded his brother. "Don't you dare give up. We are not dying here. Like this. Fight, Athos. Fight."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a short one, but it says all it needs to say.

CHAPTER 5

Aramis' command brought some reason back to Athos' numb mind and he realized he was being selfish. Perhaps he should die for his transgressions, but he had no right to hasten Aramis' demise, which would surely happen if he gave up. For his brother's sake, he had to fight. They had to fight. Together.

Pushing away his sense of helplessness, Athos attempted to study the river around them, trying to formulate a plan to escape this water ride. Perhaps God wasn't quite done with them yet because a solution was presented for their escape. An island came into view and the river forked to either side of the spit of land. Their current trajectory had them heading straight for it, though Athos knew the current would eventually push them to the right or left around it.

"Aramis," he said over his shoulder. "The island. Ahead. We need to get on it." He broke off speaking for a few seconds to catch his breath. "When we get close to the island, the current will pull us one way or the other. We need to fight it. Get on that land. It's that or we die here tonight."

"Perhaps not one of your best motivational speeches, Lieutenant," Aramis replied with small grin and a chattering of teeth. "But yes, I get the idea."

As they approached the island, it looked as if they were going to be skewered by the land. Just as Aramis was starting to believe this wasn't going to be hard, they abruptly swung to the right. The island was no longer dead ahead, but drifting off to the left. Aramis expected to hear the command to swim from Athos any second, but it didn't come. He waited and waited. Just as he was about to say something, he felt the current that had been tugging on them slack off.

"Now!" Athos yelled as he began to force his leaden arms and legs into something that resembled swimming.

With his free hand and legs, Aramis added his strength and slowly they pulled closer to the island. Time seemed to stop as they battled the river. Finally, they entered the gentle eddies that hugged the land and it got easier to swim. Dry earth was a stone's throw away and on a hunch, Aramis stopped kicking and dropped his feet downward. They hit the bottom. He could stand!

He tried to convey this knowledge to Athos who was doggedly flailing along, but the swordsman seemed in a stupor. Working his hand free of Athos' sword sheath he placed both feet on the ground, then grabbed Athos' arm.

"Stop. You can stand," he shouted through chattering teeth.

The word 'stop' made it through to Athos' brain and he halted swimming. But he didn't think to put his feet down so he promptly sank under the water.

"Athos!" Aramis screamed in panic as he plunged both hands into the water and dragged the swordsman to the surface once more. Luckily, the water in the eddies around the island was calm and it was easy to get Athos' head above the surface. "You can stand," he repeated over and over until it sank in and he felt Athos struggle to stand.

The swordsman got his feet under him and stood, the water receding to below his chest. Holding on to each other for support, they slogged their way toward dry land, though dry was a relative term since the island was covered in snow and the edges crusted in ice. Slipping and sliding, they fell twice trying to get up the gentle slope where the water met the land.

Finally clearing the field of ice, they reached land that was only covered in snow. Athos sank to his knees, collapsing in on himself in a pile, head bowed and chest to his knees. Aramis remained standing, for he was afraid if he too gave in to his exhaustion, it might be the last thing he did on this earth. Desperately, he scanned around him for a sign as to what they should do now. Yes, they were on land, but this life and death trial was far from over.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for any errors. The furball was lying in my lap and for some reason decided the perfect place to rest her head, repeatedly, was upon my keyboard. Hopefully, I undid all her 'corrections'.

CHAPTER 6

D'Artagnan pulled up, realizing he no longer heard any sounds of his companions, nor, if he thought about it, had he for a while. Turning his horse around, he scanned behind him in the dim moonlight. Odd he couldn't see anyone, he thought as he urged his mare back down the road from whence he had come.

Porthos kept pushing Flip as quickly as he dared, trying to catch sight of his friends. He'd only stopped for a minute to pee. How had they gotten so far ahead so quickly on such a slick road? Hoof beats were coming towards him. Was he that far behind that they were coming to look for him? Athos wasn't going to be happy with him when he arrived.

Peering into the distance, he was surprised to see d'Artagnan, not Athos heading towards him. Great, even worse. Athos sent the pup back to find him.

"Porthos?" D'Artagnan asked, sounding unsure and confused.

"Athos sent you back to find me? How mad is he? I swear I only stopped for a minute to pee," Porthos rushed to explain, for some reason feeling he was at fault.

"Athos? I haven't seen Athos. Or Aramis either. Just you."

"That can't be right. They was between us. How could you have not passed them?" Porthos questioned as he began to scan around him.

"Are you sure you didn't pass them?" d'Artagnan asked, even though he knew it was a stupid question.

Porthos snorted and shook his head. "Think I'd know if I passed two horses with musketeers on them. I don't like this d'Artagnan. Something's wrong."

'"Well, if you didn't pass them, then there has to be some sign of where they went between where I turned around and here."

D'Artagnan turned his mount around and they slowly walked their horses, scanning the land around them for clues.

"Here!" the Gascon called out excitedly as he saw trampled snow and skid marks that lead over the edge of the embankment. Standing in his stirrups, he craned his neck to scan the area down below near the river. He wasn't sure in the feeble light, but he thought he saw a horse. "I think there is a horse down there." Kicking free of his stirrups, he slid to the ground then dropped the reins of his horse, commanding Zad to wait.

Porthos joined him and the two men slid down the slope towards the horse. "Looks like we ain't the only ones who slid down here tonight." He pointed to the indentations in the snow.

D'Artagnan, who was now alongside the still horse said, "Its him. The gelding Athos was riding."

As the streetfighter headed over that way, his foot hit something metallic. Reaching down, he caught a flash of silver as his hands wrapped around the object. Raising it to examine it, he sharply inhaled. "This is Athos' sword. I'd recognize it anywhere."

"What happened here? Could they have been ambushed?" d'Artagnan wondered aloud as he scanned the area for more clues.

Porthos followed the marks in the snow to the river's edge. Turning he looked back up the slope and then down to the river. "I hate to say it, but I think they fell in the river. Looks like large objects slid down this slope and the marks go all the way into the Seine."

D'Artagnan, who'd been prowling around stopped, reached down and picked up an object. "Aramis' weapons belt." He turned it over in his hand a few times as he was thinking. "You found Athos' sword near the road; Aramis' belt down here. Their horses didn't have snowshoes on. What if the horses slipped on the ice and slid over the embankment? I could see Athos throwing his sword aside, if he had time, so as not to fall with it on and get hurt. If Aramis' mount went quicker, maybe he didn't have time to get this off until he was further down the slope."

They moved over to the edge of the river and studied the snowy ground as best as they could, given the dim lighting. The edges of the river's bank were smoothed over, as if something heavy and large had slid over into the icy water.

Eyeing the angry river, Porthos gravely said, "If they tumbled into that..." His voice got choked with emotion.

D'Artagnan reached over and clamped his hand on the streetfighter's muscular arm. "This is Athos and Aramis. They'll survive. We'll find them downstream somewhere, Athos drinking a keg of brandy and Aramis in the arms of a woman."

He got Porthos to smile even though they both knew the outcome of this was far from certain.

Cold killed.

Growing up in the Court of Miracles, each winter, when the streets of Paris grew bitterly cold, people froze to death. Porthos had the unfortunate experience of finding one of his friends who died from hyperthermia. Renault. Renny, they called him. Porthos had asked the boy to stay with him and a few friends because the nights had been bitter and they all piled together like a pack of puppies under the thin blankets they had stolen. But Renny, with his one eye that looked straight ahead and the other that wandered, was often picked on by the other children. Porthos never made fun of him, but others did and he wasn't fond of being in larger groups. Assuring his friend he had a safe, warm place to sleep, Renny had left that night on his own. Porthos didn't think about him again until later the next day, when he heard the gossip that another child had frozen overnight. The peculiar one they called him. With a sinking feeling, Porthos went to where the dead bodies were placed in the Court until they could be disposed of, and there he found Renny.

To this day, he still remembered what the corpse looked like. Pale, blue-white and strangely peaceful, as if he had just drifted off to sleep. He shook off his reverie. That was not going to happen to Athos and Aramis, he vowed. "Let's go. We have to search for them."

"How? It's too dark to see the river from the road above, especially the opposite bank, and there is no way we will be able to walk along the icy, snowy edge of the water, not with the horses," D'Artagnan declared in frustration. He wasn't stupid. Even if they had escaped the river, the cold could quickly kill them if they didn't find shelter and warmth. Time was critical and not on their side.

"And there is the problem of the letter. Treville said it had to be there by tomorrow," Porthos said as he walked over to where the horse Athos had been riding was standing. Instead of putting the packet in the pocket of his coat, as he usually did, Athos had tucked it into his saddle bags. Reaching into the right-hand pack, Porthos withdrew the object they were to deliver.

Both men stared at it, knowing what it meant, but neither one wanting to make the call. Finally, being the senior of the two, Porthos spoke the cold hard truth. "We have to continue with the mission. You know it's right. What Athos would expect of us." With that, he tucked the letter inside his own coat.

"He'd want us to leave him and Aramis to die?" d'Artagnan asked bitterly as he watched Porthos tuck the letter away.

Reaching over, Porthos placed a gentle hand on the lad's shoulder. "Athos would want us to do our duty. Complete the mission. And then come rescue them."

"If it is not too late," d'Artagnan cried, turning away from Porthos to face the river, not wanting the musketeer to see the tears that he was trying to hold back. "What about the horse?" he asked when he finally regained some of his composure. He turned and ran a hand over the gelding's neck.

"I guess we could try to get him back up the slope," Porthos said, though his tone indicated he was dubious of this working.

The ex-farmer gauged the slope in its snowy condition and shook his head. "Unlikely he will be able to make it."

"We can't just leave him standin' here all geared up."

Glancing back at the gelding, d'Artagnan ran a practiced eye over the horse. "He doesn't seem to have any major injuries. Let's untack him and leave him. I think he will be able to survive. The river will provide water and there is probably some forage under the snow."

Porthos walked over and started to undo the girth. "Guess it's the best we can do for him. We'll let them know when we get back to the garrison, where he is. Someone will be able to get him out of here."

It didn't take long to untack the horse, who, after he was unencumbered, simply stood there, watching them. Slinging Athos' saddle over his shoulder, Porthos handed the saddlebags and bridle to d'Artagnan. Then the two began trudging up the snowy slope. Both men slipped and fell a number of times trying to navigate the incline, and by the time they got to the top both musketeers were weary and sore. Porthos draped Athos' saddle over a fallen tree a little way off the road, hoping it would still be there when someone came to fetch it. D'Artagnan flung Athos' saddlebags over the back of his own mare and shoved the bridle into one of the packs.

Silently, they mounted and took one last look at the river below. Then, without a word, they turned and continued on to the Abbey, though their hearts were heavy with sorrow, for they couldn't help thinking they might be condemning their brothers to certain death.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok. My next story is going to be set in the heat of summer. Even I am getting cold when I read the chapter one last time before posting. Burrrrrrr!

CHAPTER 7

Shelter and warmth is what they needed if they were to survive to see another day. Their refuge from the river wasn't very big. It did have some hardy vegetation, such as trees and shrubbery, which managed to survive the floods the little island would have to endure when the spring thaws made the river run high. There was no doubt this piece of land got submerged in the flood waters. Yet, the plant life survived by toughing it out and that is what the two musketeers would need to do; persevere.

"Athos! Get up. We have to keep moving and find shelter." Aramis reached down, latched onto the kneeling man's arm and tugged it upward.

With a groan, Athos laboriously lumbered to his feet. When he looked over at Aramis, the medic could see how white his friend was, the tinges of blue around the lips, and ice clinging to his hair and beard. He was sure he looked the same. "We look like a couple of snowmen."

"I don't think even a snowman is as cold as I am," Athos remarked between chattering teeth.

Aramis whole heartedly agreed with the sentiment. He'd never been so cold that he could remember. "I wasn't even this cold at..." Without warning, his mind made a turn down a path he didn't want to travel. The snowflakes, which were gently flurrying around him took on an ominous glint. Was that a moan he heard? Rotating his head, he scanned about him, searching for his friends or the enemy. Something moved, startling him. "Marsac!" he cried, panic and concern coloring his voice.

Athos, who was lost in his own struggle to function, heard Aramis cry out, and it took his frozen brain a few seconds to process what it heard. Then his heart sank into his soggy boots. Savoy. "Aramis!"

Flat brown eyes focused on him and Athos got the impression they weren't really seeing him, but an echo of the past. His suspicions were confirmed when Aramis said, "Marsac. Our brothers are dead. Killed. They have all been killed. Yet we survive."

Athos and Marsac had never liked each other, only tolerating each other's presence because of their mutual fondness for Aramis. They had crossed words and swords many times before Savoy, he and Marsac. The soldier had made it very clear he didn't think Captain Treville should be entertaining thoughts of making Athos, the drunk, part of the regiment, no matter how proficient the man was with a sword. It was a mutual dislike for Athos thought Marsac arrogant as well as a fool. But Aramis wouldn't let sleeping dogs lie and he kept trying to broker a friendship. That had ended with Savoy when Marsac deserted and never returned.

But now wasn't the time to get lost in the past, Athos scolded himself. He had to get Aramis back in the present, find shelter and warmth or they'd both be joining Marsac. Knowing the way his luck ran, God would probably make him and Marsac roommates together in hell. Aramis, of course, would be in heaven, as long as the Father forgave his slightly wayward eye when it came to the fairer sex.

Forcing his leaden arms to rise, he placed his wooden hands on Aramis' shoulders, at least he thought they were resting there as he couldn't actually feel a thing. In an awkward manner, he shook Aramis. "Aramis! This is not Savoy and I am not Marsac." He rocked the marksman harder. "Do you hear me? You are not at Savoy."

Those brown eyes didn't blink, or in any way acknowledge his words had had any effect on the mesmerized soldier. Shifting one hand to Aramis' face, Athos forced the ice encrusted bearded chin towards him. "You told me we are not going to die here and I believe you to be a man of your word. But I can't do it alone. I need your help, brother."

And that did it, pulled Aramis from the past to the present. A spark of life reappeared in the brown eyes, which blinked a few times before settling warmly upon Athos. Aramis' hand reached up and gripped the back of Athos' neck, at least that is what his eyes registered. Athos couldn't actually feel anything on his neck. They stood there for a moment, no words spoken, but a message sent and received nonetheless.

Eventually, Aramis dropped his hand and side by side they started heading towards the interior of the island in a peculiar shuffling gait because their feet were numb. Athos did note, as they moved away from the shoreline, that there was a lot of driftwood lining the river's edge, washed up there by the current over time. The landscape was mostly deciduous trees, bare for the winter, interspersed with a few large outcroppings of rocks. However, a few evergreens graced inner part of the island, their long feathery branches sweeping to the ground.

Just about dead center of the island, they came across a most peculiar site. It was a small lean-to made of interwoven evergreen branches. It appeared to have once been covered fairly solidly with pine boughs, though weather and time had caused a few gaps. It was big enough to fit three people, snugly, and a fire pit, rectangle in shape, had been constructed in front of the opening.

Aramis sent a short prayer of thanks to his Lord and Savior for this deliverance. The devout man hated to admit it, but he had been thinking they might meet their maker tonight. Faith restored, he looked over at Athos, and he almost had a new crisis of faith as the man began to sway like a tree in the wind before toppling over. Moving quickly, he managed to use his own body to help break Athos' tumble towards the earth. Carefully, he maneuvered both their bodies slowly and safely to the ground.

Stripping off his sodden glove, he reached out to check the downed man's pulse, only to realize his fingers were of no use. He couldn't feel them or Athos' pulse. Changing tactics, he tapped on Athos' cheek, hopefully not in too rough a manner. "Hey. Come back to me."

He tapped some more and repeated his plea until he finally saw some responsiveness in the half-hooded green eyes. "No lying down on the job," he gently chided the swordsman. "We have work to do. Get some boughs, patch that roof. Then some firewood."

As they sat there, snowflakes still drifted from the skies, and if Aramis had to judge, he'd say they were heavier than before. Wonderful. Just what they needed. More snow.

Aramis' mind started drifting off thinking about snow and Athos' lids began to droop closed once more. That might have been the end right there, had not piercing cry of some nocturnal bird shattered the stillness, causing Aramis to break free of the cold induced stupor. When he realized he and Athos were sitting, soaking wet, in the snow, slowly freezing to death, he shook his head violently, trying to clear the cobwebs and began to struggle to rise.

Athos, who'd been somewhat propped up by Aramis, slide to the ground and lay still, his eyes fully shut.

"No, no, no," Aramis chanted worriedly as he bent over and once more began tapping Athos on the face. When that brought no response, he grabbed the man by the shoulder and shook him more violently. "Wake up, Athos. Damn you, wake up!" In desperation, he used his wet glove and gave the semi-conscious man a resounding slap on the cheek. That brought about the desired results as Athos' eyes flew open and he mouthed, "What the hell?'

Knowing that sitting on the snowy ground was bad for a myriad of reasons, including making it too easy to lapse back into a stupor that would lead to death, Aramis straightened and dragged a groggy Athos to his feet.

"Unless you are trying to dance with me, stand on your own two feet," he told the swaying man who was trying to find his equilibrium.

"Slug you, maybe," Athos muttered as he finally got his traitorous body under some level of control. "Dance with you, never."

"I'll have you know I'm a magnificent dance partner," Aramis retorted. "I lead wonderfully."

"If my face weren't frozen solid, I'd be scowling at you."

"So noted," Aramis said breezily before turning serious. "We have got to keep moving to keep warm or we will freeze."

In the light available, Athos forced his exhausted brain to study the rough shelter. Boughs. They needed to place some more boughs over the holes in the roof. Also underneath, so they wouldn't be forced to sit on the cold ground. His eyes roamed to the fire pit. Wood. They needed a lot of wood to fill the long, stone-lined trough that was in front of the shelter. It was a clever design, actually, allowing the occupants in the lean-to to take advantage of the blaze.

"Boughs. And firewood," Athos announced. "By the river. Driftwood." He knew his sentences were short, even by his standards, but it was the best he could do.

"There was a stand of pines right back there. l'll get boughs."

Athos nodded, indicating he heard, then turned towards the river.

"Athos," Aramis yelled after him. "It's icy by the river. Be careful. You've had your bath for the month."

Carefully, because his feet were leaden blocks, the swordsman made his way to the leeward side of the island. It wasn't far at all before he was staring at the river as it flowed by the island. The Seine was very wide here and the shore was quite a distance away. It didn't bode well for being rescued, well, assuming they survived the night, which if he was being brutally honest, was iffy at best.

Athos knew cold could kill, he'd seen it as a child. A servant froze to death when she got disoriented in a blizzard. She'd worked in the kitchen with the cook. A pleasant woman as he recalled, always sneaking him a cookie or other treat if he wandered into the kitchen. He had no idea what happened to her husband, if indeed there had ever been one. What he did know is her son worked in the stable and she was very devoted to him. Every evening she saved him scraps from whatever had been served to the family, and brought it to him in the stables. She'd been a loyal servant with the family for as long as he could remember so no one said anything.

There had been a blizzard. One of the worst he'd ever seen in his young life. He remembered staring out the window and not being able to see a thing, not even the big tree which was only a few feet from the drawing room window. Being curious, he'd opened the front door and stepped onto the small stone landing. He didn't plan to go any further, not really, but he simply wanted to experience the whiteout conditions. Wondering if he took a few steps into it, then turned around, if the house would disappear, he decided to find out. As he was about to step off the porch, a hand grabbed him by the collar and forcibly yanked him back into the great hall where he had landed with a thump on the floor.

Stupid child, his father had screamed, amongst other things. He'd scrambled back to his feet because he knew his father wouldn't approve of him lying on the floor while being lectured. He stood there while his father berated him; the man wondering how he could be so dumb as to wander outside in a blizzard. Athos tried to explain he'd had no intention of going far, but his father only cursed him again. People died in blizzards, within a few feet of their destination because the whiteout conditions caused them to get disorientated. What if he had died? How would the Comte de la Fére ever explain that his heir was stupid enough to go out in a blizzard. The conversation had ended, the way most of theirs did, with his father shaking his head and telling him how disappointed he was in his eldest.

Sighing, Athos came back to the present and stared at the swift flowing river. Imagine what his father would think of him if he knew him today. The shame he had brought to the de la Fére name. Sometimes, in his darkest moments, he wondered whether his father was right to be disappointed in him. Maybe he should have walked out into that blizzard. Just like the servant from the kitchen. She insisted she had to take food to her son in the stable, as she did every night. It wasn't that far from the kitchen to the stable. But it was far enough that in the blinding snow she got disoriented and never made it. They found her after the storm broke, frozen stiff and dead a few feet past the stable door. So close, yet so far. And his father's icy glare had almost made Athos feel somehow, it was his fault she had died.

Standing there in the snow, wet, cold, numb, exhausted, he thought he understood how she must have felt. It would be easy, would feel good, simply to lie down and go to sleep, forever. The cold was zapping the last of his strength, seducing him with its icy charm.

Give in, the snowflakes falling around him whispered. Give up.

His eyes lids began to drop and his knees buckle.

Give in, give up, the river called to him.

With no recollection of how it happened, Athos found himself kneeling in the snow once more.

Give in, give up, the wind whispered in his ears.

And he shut his eyes.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short interlude, because this is a Christmas tale. We pick up the action in the next chapter.

CHAPTER 8

Aramis made his way back to the stand of pine trees where he first scouted the ground for windfall. That gave him a tidy little pile of boughs, but not enough to patch the holes in the shelter and make a mat for the floor. Going over to the lower branches of the nearest tree, he chose a young, thin branch, grasped it as firmly as he could with his frozen hands and stripped it from the tree. A sharp, clean sent of pine filled the air, bringing back memories of Christmases long past, when he was a child.

When he was very little, they would decorate their mantle with boughs of pine and holly making the house smell fragrant. His mother, wise in the use of herbs, often made wreaths around the holiday of useful plants, dried and fresh to give to the neighbors. His father was known far and wide for his apple brandy. No one had coinage to spare, so people in the village who wanted to provide a small token to a friend or neighbor, did so using their natural talents. Aramis' mother made the herbal wreaths, his father provided small bottles of his brandy. The baker's wife made cookies using precious sugar and butter from their cows. The family with the goats made a delicious cheese that they gifted. And so on. Each gift was appreciated, for it took time and resources to make, things that were always scarce.

The pine scent swirling in his nostrils triggered another Noël memory. The orange. One December, when he was a young boy, a peddler came through their village. His covered wagon held a plethora of both useful and exotic items, enough to make a poor village turn out en masse, just to view the items even if they couldn't afford them. And the peddler gave a good show, demonstrating and describing things that no one had ever seen before.

Aramis remembered he had to push his way to the front of the crowd to see, because he was still short of stature. From his front row position, he was close enough to literally reach out and touch some of the wares on display. One had fascinated him. A small pyramid of round spheres of the brightest color he'd ever seen in an object. He hadn't meant to, knowing it was wrong and he might damage something his family couldn't afford. But his fingers seemed to have a mind of their own when they reached out and grasped the round orange orb on top of the triangular stack. The next thing he knew, all the round orbs began to fall, rolling into the dirt.

Horrified, he'd quickly tried to gather them up to restack them. His finger nail scraped the surface one of the objects and the most delicious scent drifted to his nose. Tangy. Sweet. Clean. He raised the orb to his nose and took a deep breath. Heaven. Surely this is what heaven smelled like.

The peddler had moved over and plucked the object from his hands, taking advantage of the little scene Aramis had caused to hawk his wares even more. An exotic fruit, he'd said, tossing it from hand to hand. From far, far across the sea. When asked what it was called, he said orange. Just like the color. Passing the one in his hand, the one that had the scape in it, to the nearest man in the front of the crowd, the peddler instructed him to sniff it. Aramis already knew what the holder of the orange would smell. Heaven. Though the man reluctantly put the fruit to his nose, he soon had a huge smile on his face. The merchant went on with his pitch, saying it tasted as good as it smelled. This was not an ordinary every day apple he had said, but an orange!

Of course, the crowd, after hearing about and smelling the fruit inquired of the price. But the canny man wasn't done hawking his wares yet. He had spun a tale about a ship, leaving from a small island in the south where it was always warm. A ship, that had been bound for India, with a load of precious fruit for the Maharaja. A terrible storm that blew them off course. Days upon endless days lost at sea. The air, turning colder and colder as the ship drifted North. A miracle that it made it to Le Havre. A Captain and crew, with no funds, desperately selling everything and anything they could to get enough money to repair their ship so they could head home to their warm island. And he, the lucky peddler, who was able to purchase these exotic specimens to bring to the people of France.

Aramis remembered the merchant's voice dropping even lower and the people of the village leaning in further to hear the tale being spun. Royalty, he'd confidentially whispered. Kings and Queens. They had these fruits. Not even the nobility in the Palace were allowed to taste this forbidden fruit. Only the King. And the Queen.

After that, he'd gathered back the last orange from the crowd and stacked it on top of a neat little pyramid again. Aramis recalled his mother calling him away at that point, so he never did see who, if anyone, could afford to buy the oranges. That night all he could talk about was the feel of the orange's skin, the heavenly smell. He had talked so much his mother had to threaten him to get him to stop. That night, he recalled dreaming of a land full of oranges and he, Aramis the Pirate, sailed there, saved the daughter of the King of the Island from being eaten by an angry sea monster, and had been rewarded with a ship-full of the exotic orange orbs.

Noël had been only a day away and Aramis had gone to the church to see the crèche. His family couldn't afford one, but the church had a beautiful one that he had often admired. He'd sit in church, staring at the three Kings and praying that someone would bring him a gift of an orange even though he knew it was improper to put forth such prayers. He knew he should be praying that their neighbor's only cow got well, or the baker's son, who'd been hurt by a mill wheel, recovered. To pray for an orange was simply wrong. To make up for his hubris, Aramis had spent some extra time praying to God for the things he should.

The next day, Noël, he'd woken, grabbed the bucket and headed to the community well to get water, a task he did every day. The peddler, who had been set up near the well had long departed. As he had been drawing the heavy bucket up by the rough rope, he spied something under a bush near where the wagon of wares had been stationed. Placing the bucket on the ground next to the well, he'd scooted over, got on his hands and knees and crawled under the evergreen. And there, before his eyes, was the holy grail. A perfectly round orange!

Picking it up, he raised it to his nose and the scent of orange and evergreen assaulted his senses. Stuffing it in his pocket, he'd backed out from under the bush and glanced around to see if anyone had seen him and his prize. But it was early, and he was all alone.

Grabbing the bucket of water, he'd taken it home like a dutiful son and placed some in a kettle to boil. His mother joined him shortly, wishing him a happy Noël. She suggested he look in the shoes he'd left for Pére Noël, to see if perhaps he had come to visit during the night. And that year, in his shoes he had found a small dagger and a few pieces of precious confections. He'd run over to his mother and hugged her so tightly that the orange in his pocket popped out and rolled across the floor, coming to rest against the soot-stained bricks of the hearth.

Swearing he didn't steal it, Aramis had explained how it came into his possession. His mother knew he wasn't a thief and believed his story. Then she had asked him what his intentions were, in regard to the orange. And that had stumped him. He knew the peddler was long gone and it would be senseless to save the orange to give back to the man, should he ever return to this village. So he told his mother he'd prayed to God for an orange and one had been delivered. It was his, a gift, from Jesus, on Noël.

His mother had sunk into her favorite chair, the one with the rounded needlework cushion that her mother had given to her, and gestured for him to sit at her feet. She told him she understood why he was fascinated with the orange, that the peddler had done his job well in selling its worth. But she'd gone on to explain it was wrong to pray for such selfish things. Prayer should be for the glorification of God. For the helping and well-wishing of others. Not for selfish items for oneself. His mother had instructed him to go to the Priest of the village, tell him the tale of the orange, and ask his guidance.

And Aramis had. The Father, a learned, wise preacher, had listened solemnly to the small boy's tale. He had then led Aramis to where the church's Bible was stored. The Father had opened the great tome and began to read Aramis various passages; about the widow who put her meager savings in the collection plate, about the good Samaritan who thought of others before himself, about the bread and the fishes that multiplied to feed an army of believers. The Father had closed the Bible then and gently said that Jesus wasn't here to make the orange feed the whole village, so Aramis would have to decide himself what to do with it.

Aramis had badly wanted to keep it for himself, but he knew that was not what God had been teaching in the parables of the Bible. He'd taken himself back to the bench where he could stare at the baby Jesus in the manager, a poor boy like he was, though one destined to a greatness Aramis would never achieve. But Aramis understood the stories and knew the right thing was to give the orange away. He turned the orange over and over in his hands, lifting it to his nose every now and then, still thinking it was the scent of heaven. He had to give the orange away. But to whom? He had no idea who was in greatest need, so he took his precious prize back to the priest, who'd been lighting the candles in the church in preparation for the service. Solemnly, he'd handed the orange to the priest and said for him to give it to someone who was in more need than he. After that, he'd returned home and relayed what he had done to his mother. She had been so proud of him and had given him a hug that he still could feel to this day. One of pure pride and love.

Later that day, he'd accompanied her back to the church for a Noël worship ceremony. And there, on the alter, sat his bright orange. The people of the village saw it and wondered why it was there and what it meant. It was traditional to tell the story of Jesus' birth on Noël and the Father had done just that. However, when he got to the section on the gifts from the Magi, he'd paused, picked up the orange and held it aloft. Giving no names, he described how the orange was found and then given to the church as a gift for someone who most needed it. The priest had asked his small congregation who amongst them was in the greatest need, and his heart swelled when many names were given by others, but no one named themselves. He'd then placed it on the alter once more, saying he would hand it to its rightful owner at the conclusion of the service. He'd then gone on and finished the miraculous story of the Savior's birth.

At the end of the service, the priest had walked over to the Bible on its stout oak stand, flipped open to the book of Matthew and began to read. 'At that hour the disciples came to Jesus, saying: Who, thinkest thou, is the greater in the kingdom of heaven? And Jesus, calling unto him a little child, set him in the midst of them. And said: verily I say to you, unless you be converted, and become as little children, you shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven. Whosoever therefore shall humble himself as this little child, he is the greater in the kingdom of heaven. And he that shall receive one such little child in my name, receiveth me. But he that shall scandalize one of these little ones that believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone should be hanged about his neck, and that he should be drowned in the depth of the sea.'

At the end of the verse, he solemnly shut the tome, walked over to the orange, held it aloft and declared it would be shared by the children of the village. The children had gathered around the priest as he'd solemnly peeled the offering. The scent of orange joined the Noël smells of pine boughs and lightly scented beeswax. A hush had fallen over the church as the inside of the miraculous fruit was displayed and broken into sections. The priest had asked the congregation who had a knife and Aramis had proudly held out his new blade. Using the small dagger, the priest further divided each section, until he had enough pieces for every child in the church. Almost as if it were a communion, the father placed one tiny piece of orange into the waiting mouth of every innocent child.

Aramis never forgot the taste of that small piece the man of God had placed in his mouth. But it was more than just the succulent taste. It was the joy, the warm feeling in his heart that all had been able to share in this miraculous gift from God. It was a lesson he'd never forgotten and it began his true belief that God was good and would always take care of his believers. For he had prayed for an orange and had been given not only the orange, but a valuable lesson.

And God continued to watch over him, for his trip to the past had been a result of his body succumbing to the cold and he had unconsciously sunk onto the frozen ground where the earth was attempting to leech the last of his warmth and life from his body.

But God apparently wasn't quite ready to have Aramis join him in heaven, for the wind blew harder through the snow-covered pine boughs, dislodging a large clump which fell directly upon Aramis. As cold as he was, he felt this new chill and woke from his stupor, realizing he was seated in the snow surrounded by the pine boughs he'd dropped. The danger of his situation rose in his mind and with a groan, he climbed back to his feet, then began gathering up the branches from the ground.

On the way back to the lean-to, he thanked God for delivering him from certain death. The taste of orange came to his tongue, almost as if God had acknowledged him. With renewed vigor, he patched the holes in the roof and laid a mat of boughs on the ground to help insulate them from the snow.

He frowned, knowing this was not enough for they were still wet. But Aramis could see no way to dry their clothes, for they couldn't sit around naked in the snow while their garments dried by the fire. Standing there, hands on his hips, he scanned about the area once more. Who'd built this fire pit and shelter? Why were they here? How old was it? If the occupant came here for any length of time, could there be any other useful items nearby?

With that thought occupying his mind, he began to wander around the immediate area of the camp. An odd outcropping of rocks, which appeared to have shifted, caught his eye. It looked as if there had almost been a small cave-like crevice, but the boulders had shifted and partially blocked its opening. It was too dark to see into and he wasn't going to randomly stick his head in, so he decided he'd explore it after they got the fire going and he could make a torch.

The thought of the fire made his fuzzy brain suddenly realize that Athos had not returned. Mother of God, he swore as he headed in the direction he'd last seen Athos. Had the swordsman collapsed to the cold as he had? Or worse, slipped, hurt himself? Fallen in the river?

Panic set in as he trudged through the snow towards the river, desperately calling out Athos' name. Dear God, he prayed. Don't make my time lost to a vision of the past, be the death of my best friend in the present.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy, healthy, harmonious New Year to one and all.

CHAPTER 9

A different voice broke into the confusion that was Athos' mind, telling him to get up and move.

"Don't make me stick my cold hand on your chest again," Aramis threatened, standing over the kneeling man.

Athos knew that voice, associating it with trust, forgiveness, brotherhood. A voice he should heed. Trying to fight off the cold induced stupor, he shook his head, then noticed the hand being held out to him. Raising his eyes, he peered upward into the face staring down at him.

"Odd time to be praying," Aramis said with a hint of mischief in his voice, despite the seriousness of the situation.

Athos wanted to come up with a retort, but everything he did seemed to take a thousand years to accomplish. Finally, he got the semblance of a scowl on his face, which almost made Aramis smile.

Waving his outstretched hand to catch the swordsman's attention, which was drifting away, Aramis suggested, "Let's finish getting the firewood together, shall we."

Like he was moving underwater, Athos slowly grasped Aramis' hand and used it to leverage himself to his feet. As if he were a child, Aramis led him over to a piece of driftwood and instructed him to pick it up. Sluggishly, like an ancient man, he bent over and gathered up the indicated piece of wood. Getting into a rhythm, he shuffled around, bending, lifting, bending, lifting, until his arms were full. When Aramis also had all he could hold, they walked back to the pine shelter and began crafting a fire in the rectangular pit.

Once the wood was arranged, the two stood back and stared at the pile as they contemplated how to light it. "Well, I guess we do this the old fashion way," Aramis declared with a sigh, until his eyes wandered over to glance at Athos. "Wait. You still have your weapons belt on!"

Athos' eyes strayed down to the item in question. "I tossed off my sword...before the horse fell...to avoid injury."

"Smart. I simply unbuckled my belt and let it go. Your flint?" Aramis queried. "Hopefully, it didn't get lost in the river."

Reaching for the pouch on his belt where he stored his flint, Athos attempted to open it with his frozen fingers. It took a try or two before he got it. Clumsily wrapping his fingers around the grey rock, he withdrew it, then promptly dropped it in the snow and cursed.

"I've always said you have quite a vocabulary of cuss words for a Comte," Aramis teased as he squatted and began digging in the snow for the flint. Being heavier, the flint had fallen through the snow to the ground.

Athos simply stood there and watched him as if he had no idea what to do, which tremendously worried the medic musketeer. Cold could kill, and Athos was displaying all the signs of advanced hypothermia; pallor, slurred speech, shallow breathing and confusion. Aramis knew he wasn't much better off, for he'd stopped shivering, a dangerous sign in and of itself. They needed a fire and needed it fast.

At last, his questing fingers felt a shape under the snow and he prayed it was the one he was searching for and not some stray rock. His fingers were too stiff to pick it up alone, so he got a handful of dirt and snow with it, but when he got to it, it was the flint.

Sighing with relief, he edged over to the pit and squatted in front of the piece of moss he'd gathered to use as tinder. Awkwardly, he struck the flint and it took nearly eight repetitions to get a spark that set the dried moss to smoking. Leaning over, he blew ever so carefully on it until a bright orange flame sprouted and began licking at the wood. For a moment, the flame made him think of the orange again. He sat there, staring at the fire as it grew and spread over the pit. The dancing flames were mesmerizing and the little warmth already being generated felt wonderful.

Aramis had no idea how long he was lost in his own world again, this cold being a sneaky and deceitful enemy. It was a shiver that brought him back to realty, one that was hard and long and broke the spell of the fire. He discovered he was sitting in the snow in front of the pit and judging by how well the fire was burning and the ring of melted snow around the outside of the rock pit, he'd been in his trance for a while.

As his mind began to sluggishly process things again he thought of Athos. Where was he? His eyes darted about the campsite and discovered a figure, curled up in a ball, a few yards from the fire. It appeared that Athos had once again succumbed to the siren song of the cold and collapsed where he stood.

Rising and hurrying over to where his friend lay, Aramis dropped to his knee and began shaking the swordsman to rouse him. That had no effect on the man and with trepidation, Aramis stripped off his glove again and felt for a pulse. It was hard given the cold, but he did detect the beat of Athos' heart. Gathering the man in his arms and holding him tight against his chest, he prayed for forgiveness for having, once again, left him.

Though they were about the same height, Athos was a little lighter than he, so Aramis was able to rise with his arms firmly wrapped around the man's chest and drag him over to the pine-lined lean-to. He propped the unconscious man against his torso as they sat as close to the fire as possible. Clumsily, Aramis tried to rub Athos' cold, wooden, unresponsive limbs. He felt the wet leather of the pants and the doublet and knew the garments underneath were just as wet and were sapping the life out of Athos, as were his own sodden clothes. But they couldn't simply strip down and sit in front of the fire. It wouldn't be warm enough and they would freeze, the same as if they stayed in the wet garments.

At that point, he remembered the odd formation of fallen rocks he'd wanted to explore with a torch. Carefully laying his unresponsive brother on his side next to the fire, Aramis choose a suitable limb from the pile of wood they had not yet burned and made it into a torch. Even though the man was not conscious, Aramis assured his brother he would not be gone long.

Torch in hand, he made his way the short distance to the rocks, bent over and shoved the torch in the opening, praying no animal was sheltered within. When nothing untoward happened, he got closer and peered into the rocky hole. It had been a cave of sorts, once, before the rocks had shifted. As he waved the torch about, he could see a few items such as two pallets, which had served as a bed and some scattered crockery, mostly broken. Some person, or persons, had obviously been living here for a while. His mind began to wonder why, but before it could take him off into a mode where he once again fell into a stupor and let time pass him by, he shook his head to focus on the task at hand.

His eyes roamed the small dim cave again, finally lit upon something useful inside, something that made his heart lift. Something that proved God was listening to his prayers. Two blankets.

It was a struggle, but with the help of another long branch, he was able to drag them close enough to the opening to seize them with his hand. They were old, but still in good condition, which made him wonder how long it had been since the previous occupants had been here. He also snagged two metal cups and a small pot which he thought might come in handy.

Snuffing out the torch, he carried his booty back to the camp. He noted Athos hadn't moved at all while he was gone, which was not a surprise. The cold was killing both of them, but now God had given them weapons to fight back.

It was a struggle to get the unresponsive Athos out of his wet clothes, especially given the fact his own hands were incredibly stiff from the cold. But the medic-musketeer succeeded, and if the truth be told, it wasn't the first time he'd undressed the man when he was unconscious. A couple of times Athos had been injured in a battle and had to be stripped for him to tend his wounds. Then there were the dark days, when Athos had drunk himself into a stupor and his brothers had to see he got safely home. Many a night Aramis had removed Athos' outer clothing before placing him into his bed to sleep off his indulgences. Those days, thank God, for the most part had passed, for Aramis had had serious doubts whether the swordsman would survive, or had wanted to survive.

He wrapped Athos in one of the blankets and laid him on his right side in the shelter, on the insolating pine boughs. The fire pit was close enough that it was getting a little bit warmer inside the lean-to than it was outside. Once he had Athos settled, he took the man's clothes and spread them on the far side of the fire to dry.

He also took a minute to walk back into the woods and pick some mint he'd seen when they were gathering the firewood. It was nearly dead but would be useful. Once back at the fire, he put snow in the scavenged pot and set it on the side of the fire to melt and warm. While that was happening, he stripped naked, wrapped himself in the second blanket, then added his own clothes to the far side of the fire to dry.

When the water was hot, he dropped in a hand full of the mint leaves he'd crushed and let it steep. When he judged it was done, he poured a measured amount into each tin mug and brought them into the shelter. Placing them to the side, he sat on the boughs, then arranged it so Athos' back was cradled against his chest allowing his own body heat to help warm the man. It also gave him the ability to dribble some of the warm mint tincture between the frozen man's lips.

They sat this way for over an hour, Aramis judged, before he felt a stirring in Athos. Gently, he reached around and lightly tapped the swordsman on the cheek and began to speak to him, encouraging him to wake up. Groggily, Athos began to squirm in his embrace and Aramis offered soothing words of encouragement. Aramis was thrilled that Athos was reviving, though he knew they still had a long way to go to escape this winter nightmare.


	10. Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

The first thing Athos noticed when he cracked open his eyes was the roaring fire and he wondered when that had happened. His memory since they had crawled out of the river was hazy at best. He thought he recalled something about carrying firewood, but he wasn't sure what was real and what was part of his nightmares.

The second thing he noted was the naked state of his body, along with the fact he was wrapped in a blanket. Where did the blanket come from? Had they been rescued? He thought they had fallen in the river. But was that truth or had it been some bad dream? But if it was a dream, why was he naked under a blanket? This line of thought was going nowhere so he went back to observing what else he could.

The third thing he noticed was his whole body ached, but especially his torso. That is what happens, he supposed, when you spend hours uncontrollably bouncing off of rocks. Some the river must not have been a dream. Breathing shallowly, he decided, was his best course of action.

The fourth and final thing his weary mind latched onto was the fact he was sitting upright, supported by something slightly warmer than himself, though that wasn't saying much for it was still cold. He was going to assume it was one of his brothers, at least that is what he hoped. If he was leaning naked against a stranger, well maybe he didn't want to figure out what was going on.

"You're awake. Good," floated to his ears and he sighed in relief. Aramis. Of course. Of all his brothers, Aramis would have no qualms about striping him naked in the name of healing. A violent shiver rocked across his body setting his ribs on fire, which was painful and caused him to moan and squirm in Aramis' warming embrace.

"It's ok. I know you probably hurt, but it is a good sign. Your body is trying to fight back against the cold that is killing it," Aramis explained in a soothing tone as he momentarily tightened his arms around his friend. In the darkness, he hadn't seen the colorful bruising decorating his brother's rib cage. "Lean into me until it passes."

As the aching of his ribs and the cramps in his muscles, brought on by the violent shaking, grew more severe, Athos gave up all pretense of being independent and snuggled against Aramis, turning his head slightly to tuck it against the medic's shoulder for comfort. After what seemed like an eternity, the shaking subsided, his muscles loosened and his ribs settled back to a dull ache. Athos found he was panting and exhausted after the ordeal. He closed his eyes, wanting to sink back into oblivion again where he would feel nothing.

However, he was in for a rude awakening. Aramis, sensing his brother was drifting off again, and knowing it was dangerous to do so, stuck his hand outside of the blanket for a moment until it grew cold. When it was sufficiently chilly, he pressed it on Athos' lower back, causing the man to shriek and bolt awake.

"Get that off me! What the hell are you trying to do? Kill me!" Athos growled as he squirmed, trying to move away from the icy object being pressed into his back.

"On the contrary, I'm trying to save your life," Aramis answered glibly, though he did remove his cold hand.

"I think I'd rather die," Athos tossed off without much thought as another painful shiver rocked his body.

Turning deadly serious, Aramis shifted until he could partially see the other man's face. "Athos. You nearly did die multiple times tonight. Your body has gotten cold, almost too cold to survive. If I hadn't found the blankets." Aramis' voice broke and he paused a moment to regain control. "You have scared me more than once since we escaped the river. I don't like being scared."

Immediately, Athos became contrite. "Sorry. I am not thinking clearly."

"All part of the cold's deathly grip. I need you to stay awake and fight. I can't do this without your help. This is for both of us," Aramis said truthfully, realizing if either of them went to sleep now, they might never wake again as the cold carried them away.

Athos shifted until he was sitting more independently. "You did all this?" he asked as his eyes roamed the shelter noting the fire, pile of firewood, blankets and lastly lighting on the cups.

"Whether you recall or not, you helped. And God led me to a small cave, well former cave, and within it I found the blankets and utensils." Aramis poured a cup of hot mint water from the pot on the fire and handed it to Athos. "Drink. It will help warm your insides."

For a few moments, Athos just held the hot metal cup in his hands, savoring the heat that was seeping into his fingers, which hadn't been warm in what felt like an eternity. Eventually, he took a sip of the heated liquid, which burned his tongue and all the way down to his stomach. It felt good, though he did grimace a little at the taste of what was basically mint water.

Chuckling a little at Athos' grimace, Aramis mock apologized. "Forgive me, oh my Comte. I didn't have time to search out a bee hive to sweeten my lord's beverage."

Straight-faced and stoic as always, Athos simply replied, "Next time."

Aramis glanced up at the moon, trying to judge how much more night they had left. Surrounded by trees, he couldn't see if the horizon was pinking up with the morning sun. With a sigh, he rose to check on their drying clothes. He knew their leathers would take a long time to dry, especially since they were saturated, but the linen braies and shirts should dry more quickly. However, his questing fingers found them still too damp to put back on. With a sigh, he climbed back into the little shelter next to Athos.

"You didn't find clothes in your magic cave?" Athos asked drily upon Aramis' return.

"I did, but they were women's. Dresses, corsets, petticoats. Shall I go fetch them for you? Or would you prefer to lean against my person until our own clothes are dry?"

Athos sat silently for a few seconds, as if he were truly contemplating which was the lesser evil.

"Surely, leaning against me to stay alive isn't that objectionable," Aramis asked in a pretend hurt tone simply to break the silence.

After a few more seconds, Athos replied, "It was rather…itchy."

Aramis frowned, then explained. "Our skin wasn't touching if you are implying it was me! That was the blanket. It's wool."

Staring out into the night, Athos grunted, "Oh." Then he reached around and scratched his back.

"Are you suggesting I'm harboring bugs?" Aramis demanded of the quiet man who continued to scratch.

"I suppose, the bath in the frigid river, took care of any of your …bug problems," Athos drawled in that infuriating manner he had cultivated from his former life as a member of the privileged society. The man was an expert at coming out with these lilting phrases that cut one off at the knees.

The frigid wind chose that moment to howl viciously over their little island, picking up loose snow and tossing it in the night air. A few snowflakes worked their way into the lean-to and settled on Athos' exposed face, making him shiver.

"Come closer you idiot. You need me and I need you to stay warm," Aramis ordered and he was happy to see Athos obey. The swordsman crawled in front of him once more, gingerly leaned his back against Aramis' chest, then sighed as he felt the warmth seeping through the rough blanket. The marksman folded the edges of his generous wrap around both of them and they sat, silently like that for a long time. Longer than he meant to, for both men drifted off to sleep.

While they were asleep, the sun peeked its head over the horizon, but the warmth of its weak rays never reached the ground because a blanket of snow-laden clouds covered the skies. The wind, which had calmed during the pre-dawn hours, whipped itself into a frenzy again. The temperature, driven by the wind-chill, plunged once more.

Athos' nightmares came to plague him, even in his cold induced slumber. Gerard Daumont. The mutilated bodies of Daumont's wife and children swam in front of Athos' eyes. The deranged Daumont had killed his family his own hands; multiple slashes from a dagger, and then many more, past the point of death. But what he'd done to the servants of the holding was even more horrifying and showed how unhinged the man was; a lunatic.

In his nightmare, the swordsman found himself trapped by Daumont, tied to a post with a dagger pointed at his heart. In the distance, he saw Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan running to rescue him and he shouted for them to stop, for they didn't know the traps set for them. Athos continued to scream for them to halt when the deranged Daumont using his dagger, yanked out his tongue and sliced it off. Strangely, there was no pain following this act, at least not in his mouth. But his heart nearly burst as he saw his three brothers, whom he loved more than life itself, one by one succumb to Daumont's loathsome traps.

Porthos went down first, falling into a covered hole where he was brutally impaled on sharpened stakes below. The streetfighter bellowed like a bull as the pointed wood stabbed through his vital organs. The roaring changed to mighty groans, then heart-rendering sobs, and finally silence. Death had claimed the large-hearted giant.

D'Artagnan met his maker next. A loop on the ground, tied to a tree, clasped around his ankle when he hit the trip wire. Up into the air he was hauled, ankle first and Athos could hear the snapping of the Gascon's leg bones from the violent jerking. The sound made Athos sick to his stomach. As the lad dangled by his shattered limb from the tree branch, Daumont picked up the first of five muskets next to him on the ground, took aim and shot the swaying target in the stomach. D'Artagnan screamed out in pain as the hot metal ripped through his innards. Four more times the vile man shot at the swinging musketeer, with the last two being the head and heart. Tears were coursing down Athos' face and his throat was raw from the screams no one could hear.

The last of his beloved brothers to meet his maker was Aramis. Running under a net full of rocks suspended from a rope in the tree, brought him his demise. The net let loose and the rocks hit him on the skull, knocking him to the ground, unconscious. Out of nowhere a cross came into view. Giggling like the unbalanced madman he was, Daumont walked over to where the downed man lay on the ground. As if he weighed nothing, the lunatic slung Aramis over his shoulder and carried him to the cross where he proceeded to nail Aramis' hands and feet to it. The marksman awoke, screaming out in pain. Athos watched helplessly as Daumont, the man he should have stopped long ago, proceeded to pound more spikes into his brother's body. Obviously enjoying what he was doing, Daumont made Aramis' death slow and painful, placing the long nails in places designed to cause tremendous pain, the eyes, the groin, but not in places that would swiftly kill the musketeer. Finally, Daumont pounded a long, wide spike into Aramis' heart and Athos felt the pounding of the hammer in his own heart.

Somehow, for this was an illogical nightmare, Athos found his tongue back in his mouth and the cords binding him gone. Jumping to his feet, he tried to reach where Aramis hung on the cross, his life blood staining the snow that now covered the ground. Try as he might, he couldn't reach Aramis. He lay in the snow, watching the last twitch of life leave the man. When it was over, Athos went numb, simply lying there in the snow, cold and shivering and praying to die.


	11. Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

D'Artagnan, if we kill the horses, we will never get there," Porthos gently scolded the younger, impatient, musketeer. "I'm worried too, but we have to be smart about this."

"You're right," the Gascon acknowledged as he reluctantly reined back his mount. "It's just I'm..." The lad's emotions choked him off from finishing.

"Scared. Me too," Porthos completed the sentence for his friend. "But this is Athos and Aramis. They've gotten out of situations much worse than this."

They rode along in silence, watching, as the spire of the Abbey of Saint-Germain d'Auxerre slowly came into view over the snow-dusted tree tops. It felt like it was taking forever to get there as they rode along the path in the weak morning sun.

Something had been bothering the lad as they had slowly ridden through the night. Like a flood damn suddenly breaking loose, D'Artagnan burst out. "We should have stayed and kept searching and forgotten about completing this stupid mission."

Solemnly, the streetfighter shook his head. "It doesn't work like that, d'Artagnan. When you became a musketeer, you took an oath to King and country. To give your life for the safety of France. We don't know what is in this package," he said patting his pocket. "But we do know the King entrusted his musketeers to deliver it. And we will."

"I know. You have already given me that speech," d'Artagnan grumbled as he gazed into the distance at the spire sporting a rooster, which he swore was moving further away.

"It doesn't seem like you listened the first time then." Porthos smiled over at the lad, fully understanding his frustrations. "And let me repeat myself again. This is Athos. And Aramis. They will make it."

The speech didn't make d'Artagnan feel any better this time than it had the last time and he lapsed back into silence.

The sun was fully risen when they rode through the narrow stone archway into the inner courtyard. The space was rectangular in shape, lined with a double row of trees on the right and a single row on the left. Behind the stout rear wall ran the river, which they could hear in the near silence of the Abbey. Because it was enclosed, the snow had been blown in strange patterns, leaving some spots empty and others, where the drifts were as high as a horse's shoulder. It was into one of the bare spots that the two musketeers rode and dismounted.

A monk in a worn, but warm looking woven robe appeared and indicated he would take their horses. "Don't untack them, we'll be leaving soon," d'Artagnan yelled after the monk as he walked away with the animals. His voice echoed loudly around the silent courtyard.

"Sheesh, keep your voice down, d'Artagnan," Porthos hissed at the lad. "Show some respect."

The Gascon did feel sheepish as attested to by the way he ducked his head. However, he still grumbled under his breath, "When did you become so religious."

"Religion is Aramis' thing. But this is about respect for someone's way of life. Some of these monks may have made vows of silence. It must be disturbing to have your voice braying about."

They stood for a few minutes in the courtyard, waiting. A monk had led their horses away, yet no one else had shown up to greet them. Trying to curb his impatience, d'Artagnan scanned his surroundings, his eyes drawn upward to the various spires and towers. The shorter ones were graced with crosses and yet the largest one, the one he'd seen in the distance, had a rooster on it.

"Porthos, why do you think there is a rooster on top of that spire instead of a cross?"

Porthos stopped looking around the courtyard for someone who appeared in charge and let his eyes be drawn upwards to the tallest tower. There was a rooster on it. "Dunno. Ask Aramis. Religion's his game."

Just then, a brother glided out from one of the archways heading in their direction. He moved swiftly, quietly, and efficiently over the frozen ground.

Coming to a stop near the two musketeers, he made a small bow and began to express his regrets. "My apologies for keeping you waiting. I was at prayers. I am Abbott DuBois. You have brought me something from the King I believe?"

Porthos began to reach into his pocket, but the Abbott quickly whispered, "Not here. Let's go inside. It's warmer and there are fewer prying eyes.

D'Artagnan started to open his mouth to protest, he wanted to shove the package into the Abbott's hand and then get back on the road, but a glare from Porthos' preempted his words. If the Abbott saw the silent conversation, he chose not to comment, simply turning and eerily glide away.

"Amazes me how they do that," Porthos murmured to d'Artagnan who was walking at his side as they followed the monk indoors.

"We take a class on how to do it," the Abbott frivolously tossed over his shoulder as he glided under an archway.

The big man blushed a little at having been heard by the Abbott. They wound through the stone confines of the Abbey, climbing stairs and moving through corridors until they came to an elaborately carved door.

"Ostentatious, isn't it. But it's been here since the place was built. Who am I to change it." Opening the wooden door covered with a mulitude of heavenly hosts , the Abbott entered into a small antechamber, wherein sat another monk behind a small desk.

"Brother Francis, please see to it we are not disturbed." With that, he passed through another door, non-carved, into his suite. Once again, the chamber was ornate. The Abbott signed. "My predecessor spent way too much time on decorating and not so much on the business of the Abbey.

Motioning them over to a set of chairs near the fire, he invited them to sit. Playing host, he walked to a nearby cabinet, removed three wine glasses and brought them over to a table near where the musketeers sat. Retrieving a bottle of wine next, he brought that over and amply filled all the glasses. "Would you like it warmed by the fire. It is certainly cold enough." Both musketeers declined his offer.

"Not to be rude, Father, but we need to give you this package and get back on the road." Reaching inside his jacket, Porthos grasped the item, withdrew it and set it on the table near the wine glasses.

The Abbott placed the wine bottle he'd been pouring from on the table, but made no move to pick up the package. Instead, he lifted the wine glasses and passed them around. "It's very good, I assure you," he declared as he sat in the third empty chair by the fire. "We have our own vineyard, and our brothers make this wine. An old recipe handed down over the ages. Quite robust."

The two musketeers politely sipped the wine. The wine made them think of Athos, who'd be able to judge its worth. Porthos, having delivered the package, felt he had done his duty as commanded. Now it was time to go search for his missing brothers. He rose and placed his unfinished glass of wine on the table. "Not to be rude, but we have to be going."

Hearing those words, d'Artagnan was on his feet in an instant. He too placed his glass of wine, more than half-full, on the table.

"Please. You have had a long and I suspect cold journey to bring me this." He reached over and tapped the package with a fingertip. "Stay the day. Recuperate. Let me offer you a warm room for the night. Surely your Captain won't begrudge you sleeping safe and sound for a night."

"Thank you for the offer, but we must get going," d'Artagnan repeated, a little more forcibly than he meant to for he was worried.

"Might I inquire as to why you feel the need for such a hasty departure?" the Abbott asked, his curiosity getting the best of him.

"We lost two men on the way here. We have to go search for them," Porthos impatiently explained to the man, whose eyes had strayed to one of the windows in his quarters.

"Oh dear. Then this is not good." He gestured towards the windows, and the two musketeers glanced outside.

Moving closer to the window, because he didn't believe what he was seeing, Porthos swore. "Damn!" There were blizzard conditions outside the window. He couldn't see more than two feet. He felt the Abbott gliding up to his side.

"Normally, I have a wonderful view of the vineyard. You'll find nothing in that weather. It would be foolish to go out into that storm."

Porthos knew the man was right, but it didn't mean he had to like it.

D'Artagnan was even more upset and he blurted out, "We have to go. We can't sit here doing nothing."

Looking out the window once more, Porthos shook his head sadly. "He's right. Until this clears we won't be able to track them and most likely we'll die. They wouldn't want us to risk ourselves so foolishly."

"So, we are going to stand around here, doing nothing?" d'Artagnan exclaimed bitterly as he turned away from the window.

"No," the Abbott interjected calmly. "We shall finish our wine. Get some food and you will head off to bed to get some rest. That way you will be refreshed and ready to head out the minute this storm breaks. The brothers and I shall spend our time praying to God for the safe return of your friends." He saw the skeptical looks on their faces, but wasn't insulted. He understood well enough these were men of action, not prayer. "Trust me. Never underestimate the power of prayer."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to know why there is a rooster on the spire of the church, I recommend to Google it. There are a lot of 'stories', some more plausible then others, but like many things no one is absolutely sure which one is 'true'. It does however, seem very popular to find a cock on a French church. When I Googled a picture of the Abbey, I saw one on top, hence I added it to the story.


	12. Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

Two parts of Athos' nightmare were based in reality. He was actually laying, naked, in the snow and he had screamed Aramis' name, loudly. It was these two things that saved his and Aramis' life.

The cold had once again done it insidious work, creeping into their bodies and causing the two musketeers to fall into a stupor as they sat wrapped in the blankets. Aramis was so far lost in the icy clutches of death, that the thrashing of Athos, from his nightmare, the blankets slipping off, and the swordsman wandering a few steps away did not pierce his cold slumber. Only the desperate, heart-wrenching cry of his treasured brother could pierce winter's death veil.

The marksman's eyes flew open and his heart pounded as he desperately searched for the source of the scream. They lit upon Athos, laying naked, on the boughs by the mouth of the lean-to. The fire had burned down to embers, giving off only the slightest warmth. Had it not been for the boughs and the slight heat from the fire, Athos would probably have already been dead.

Fueled by adrenaline, Aramis leapt to his feet, closed the few steps to the swordsman, gathered him up and held him tightly against his own body, willing his body's own meager warmth to seep into the frozen man. Carrying him into the central part of the lean-to, he wrapped them both in the blankets again and they sat like that for a very long while. Finally, Aramis felt some warmth in the skin of his best friend.

He had been so focused on trying to get Athos warmed up and praying, he hadn't noticed the snow had started falling heavily once more. If they wanted to survive another snowstorm, the fire had to be kindled, and Aramis wanted to check if any of their clothes were dried, so he wrapped Athos in one blanket, nice and tight, while he swathed the other around his body.

Checking the clothes, he found their shirts, braies and socks were dry; the leathers not so. Their boots were also damp, but if they had to go out into the snow for any reason, they would have to wear them. Scooping up the dry garments, he carried them back into the lean-to and put his on, including his boots, struggling a bit with the damp leather. Athos' boots he placed in the shelter, as near to the fire as possible. Next, he ventured out again, placed wood from the surplus pile they had made earlier into the pit and got the fire going again. When it was roaring, he went back into the shelter, somewhat exhausted once more from lack of food, water, quality sleep and, of course, the ever persistent cold.

Try as he might, he couldn't rouse the swordsman. Growing concerned the man had fallen into a coma from which he would never awake, Aramis tried everything he knew to wake Athos. In desperation, he resorted once more to painful stimuli, including snow and knuckle rubs, but to no avail. Hating himself, but believing it was important that Athos regain consciousness, Aramis retrieved Athos' dagger from his weapons belt, which they had stored in the corner of the shelter. Drawing the blade from its sheath, he turned it over and over in his hand before gathering the courage to take it and plunge it, blade first, into the fire.

His stomach began to churn as he watched the blade turn red hot from the heat of the fire. Praying to God he was doing the right thing, he wrapped the corner of his blanket around the hot handle and withdrew the dagger from the blaze. Moving back over to the unconscious man, he debated where to do it. It was going to leave a scar for sure, but it also had to be someplace painful. With much regret, he fished Athos' left arm out from under the blanket, turned it over and on the tender skin on the underside of Athos' forearm he laid the molten blade. The smell of burnt flesh rose to his nostrils and he would have vomited had his stomach contained any food.

But it worked. Athos' eyes flew open as he screamed, causing Aramis to fling the blade away then gather the dazed man in his arms as tears flowed down his face. Over and over again he apologized. Dazed and confused, Athos pushed Aramis away. Sitting up on his own, he slowly turned his left arm over to examine the burn, then pointedly glanced up at Aramis.

"Why?" he croaked out the single word.

"You were unconscious. From the cold. I had to get you to wake up. I was afraid if I didn't you never would. You didn't respond to anything, so I," Aramis gulped and lowered his voice, "took your knife and…"

Athos glanced from the distraught man, to his arm, then out of the shelter into the feeble daylight. It was snowing hard and he could hear the wind increasing in velocity as it whipped through the trees. "I think we're in for another blizzard," he said deceptively calmly, looking at the deteriorating weather conditions.

The marksman sat there in stunned silence, not believing Athos wasn't paying any attention to the horrific burn on his arm, which he had just inflicted.

Glancing back over at Aramis, he noticed the man had his shirt, braies, socks and boots on while he was still naked. "My clothes? Are they also dry?" Aramis nodded in the direction of the pile of clothes resting on the pine boughs in the shelter. "Good," Athos declared when he saw them.

"Aren't you going to say something about your arm?" Aramis blurted out, a desperate edge to his voice.

With an almost child-like curiosity, Athos gazed at the burn again. "It hurts?"

Exasperation over took the medic who didn't understand why his brother wasn't angry. He'd just maimed the man. Scarred him for life. "Well of course it hurts! I took your dagger, heated it up until it was red hot and deliberately burned you!"

Athos raised his head again and peered at Aramis. "I forgot I still had my dagger."

Sputtering, Aramis repeated, "You forgot you had your…"

"Dagger, yes," the swordsman finished Aramis' sentence as he shifted to look outside once more. The weather outside was deteriorating rapidly, which made the fire that much more welcome. But they wouldn't have a fire long if they didn't get more firewood to replenish what they had already burned. "After I get dressed, we need to get more firewood."

"Firewood?" Aramis repeated dumbfounded.

"Yes. I have my doubts that storm will let up anytime soon and we will need to keep the fire going if we don't want to die. And I don't." Turning his serious green eyes to capture Aramis' brown sorrowful ones, he said, "Thank you. You did what was…necessary."

Aramis blinked a couple of times as he processed Athos' gratitude. "I'd say you're welcome, but that somehow seems, well, inappropriate." With a slight smile, he went on. "I would suggest you put something cold, like snow, on it. It will help take away the sting."

Athos nodded to show he heard, before he tried to rise. It took a moment and a steadying hand from Aramis for him to get his balance. With a little assistance from his brother, he got dressed though getting his boots on turned into a challenge for both of them. They were cold and stiff and putting them on was unpleasant. But he couldn't go running around in the snow in his stockings. By the time he got them on, Athos' ribs were screaming at him with pain. The burn on his arm seemed like nothing compared to the pounding in his torso.

Standing at the edge of the shelter, the two peered out into the intensifying storm. "We need to move the rest of our clothes to this side. They won't dry as well, but if left where they are, they will get covered in snow or blown away." Athos gave a quick nod to indicate he had heard Aramis. "And we need to stick together out there."

Making their blankets into the warmest capes possible, they set out into the snowstorm to gather more wood. Rapidly, they gathered what they could, for the cold was zapping what little strength they had left. Once back inside their little pine shelter, Aramis made another pot of mint flavored water which helped warm them for a few minutes. Then they huddled close together to share each other's blankets. Athos tried not to wince as his bruised ribs objected to the position. The only good news was he was so numb he barely registered their aching or that of his arm.

"We mustn't allow ourselves to fall asleep again. At all costs, we need to stay awake," Aramis told Athos with a seriousness that let the swordsman know the medic truly believed they would never wake if they dozed off.

Athos nodded to show he understood, though he had no idea how they would manage it. Already, his eye lids felt like they had weights attached to them. Even as he thought that, he felt an elbow poke him in his side causing a wave of pain to wash over him.

"Awake!" Aramis demanded not realizing how effective his poke had really been. "You've got to stay awake." Thinking for a moment, he demanded, "Gerard Daumont. You tried to kill him after we had subdued him. Were you trying to shoot him? Would you, if Porthos hadn't pushed you aside?"

Athos glanced sharply at Aramis then away. He couldn't answer Aramis' question for he, himself, wasn't sure of the truth. Had he actually pulled the trigger or had Porthos' jostling made him? His guilty conscience said he had tried to murder the man, for he deserved it.

"I don't know," he finally answered. "He deserved to die. But I know it was not my place to…judge him."

"Yet you did. You knew him? From your past?"

Shifting a little, as if trying to find a more comfortable position, Athos stalled for time before telling the story.

Aramis, knowing Athos as he did, knew the man was deeply upset, even if he barely showed it on the outside. But those who knew and loved him best could see past his walls. "Tell me. Please. It is obviously upsetting to you. Talking about it might help."

Again, a long silence settled over the pine bough shelter, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the whistling of the wind. Whoever had first built the shelter had positioned the fire pit very cleverly, for it was on the leeward side of the rock cropping, which offered it a measure of protection. For this the musketeers were glad, for the fire was their only lifeline at present.

Finally, Athos took a deep breath and began to speak in a low, intense voice. "Gerard Daumont was a monster. The incarnation of the devil himself. And he was my cousin."


	13. Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

"My mother had two siblings, a sister and a brother older than she. The brother was a baron and the sister married a Vicomte. My mother made the best marriage of the lot. Both of her siblings wedded and had children before she did, so my cousins were older than I. Gerard was the first born of my mother's sister, five years my senior."

"They came to visit, though usually only on holidays. My mother's sister was envious, I believe, that her younger sister had made a…higher ranking marriage than she. I got the impression my mother wasn't all that happy to have her sister visit, though she was family and certainly couldn't be turned away. My father wasn't affected at all by their visits, he simply took the Vicomte away on multi-day hunting expeditions, leaving my mother to deal with her sister and their two children, Gerard, as I have mentioned and his younger sister, Francine, who was two years my senior."

Athos shivered, though Aramis had the impression it wasn't totally driven by the cold. "When Gerard came to visit… things happened."

"Things happened?" Aramis questioned. "What kind of things?"

An uncomfortable expression flashed across the usually guarded face of his friend. "Things that I should have known weren't right. Cruel traps set for animals in the woods. Carcasses that had been…violated…mutilated. Always after Gerard came to visit. It wasn't until I was thirteen that I saw his work first hand. We'd been hunting on horseback for foxes in the woods. Animals must know, sense cruelty in a person, for as I think back, every horse or dog that got near my cousin feared him."

"Animals are more intuitive than we give them credit for I think," Aramis said thoughtfully. "A survival instinct. For dealing with humans."

"We came to a downed tree and my gelding easily popped over it, though my cousin's somewhat temperamental mount balked at the idea, refusing to jump it. Gerard took out his crop and began beating the poor animal on the neck, sides and hindquarters, raising welts on the animal's skin. I was horrified at the way he was treating the animal, so I popped back over the log and attempted to take the crop from him."

Athos flinched a bit as if the memory had made the nerves of his body relive a past pain. "He said it was an accident, but he 'accidently' managed to hit me numerous times before I was able to pull the crop away. It wasn't easy."

"His horse was flecked with sweat, white eyed and spooked, so much so that he wouldn't listen to any cues, hands, feet, bit or rein commands from my cousin. I suggested, for the sake of his mount, we trade horses and so we did. I carefully approached the frightened horse and managed to sooth him through my voice and hands."

"You were good with horses, even as a child. A gift," Aramis stated with a small smile.

"More like an understanding. Animals, like people, want to be treated fairly. Whipping something, a horse, a dog, a servant, ... a child," he snuck in under his breath, "rarely brings about the reaction hoped for. It usually makes the recipient of the beating…stubborn."

Aramis had a feeling that he had inadvertently just learned another thing about Athos' childhood. On the slave ship wasn't the first time his skin had felt the cruel bite of leather.

"And so," Athos continued on with his tale, "I carefully mounted, avoiding as best as I could the whip marks and began settling the horse down. I circled with him for a few minutes to calm him. My cousin had long since ridden off after the fox leaving us behind. When I thought I had the animal sufficiently composed, I pointed him at the fallen log again and the gelding jumped it easily. As I rode along, following the path through the woods my cousin had left, I prayed he wouldn't in anyway hurt my horse for my father would be furious and no matter what, the blame and punishment would fall upon me."

The wind chose that moment to blow a bit harder, eddies of the current causing the flames of their fire to dance and sway. Visibility had dropped to zero and the trees on the far side of the fire pit were hidden by a wall of white. Athos snugged the blanket a bit closer around his shivering body and Aramis thought the swordsman leaned a little closer to him. For warmth or comfort, he didn't know, but treating the reserved man like a skittish colt, he remained still and let Athos snuggle as close as he felt comfortable.

"I heard two shots in the distance, a few minutes apart. I urged my horse onward faster, still, it took ten minutes more for me to reach the clearing my cousin was in. And the site that greeted me was…" Athos' voice drifted off as he stared into the flames.

"What did you see?" Aramis prompted with interest and trepidation.

"The fox lay on the ground, covered in blood. Blood which also was flecked on Gerard. And my horse, the horse I had been riding, lay still on the ground. I slid off my mount, leaving him a bit away so he wouldn't get spooked by the heavy scent of blood hanging in the air. I looked at my cousin, who had a strange gleam in his eyes and then at the fox, which had been stabbed multiple times. My cousin claimed he shot the fox, but it wasn't a fatal blow and so it had turned and attacked him. He claimed that the horse, frightened by the fox running under its feet, dumped him on the ground. The fox then leapt on him and tried to claw and bite him. Gerard showed me bloody scratches on his arms, that I suppose could have been the result of a fox's claws."

Drawing in a shuddering breath, Athos paused for a moment. "I learned, later, that my cousin wasn't above cutting himself to make his stories…plausible. He was sick, and never got the help he needed, if it would have helped. Perhaps some people are simply born evil," he philosophized.

"And the horse?" Aramis asked quietly, sensing the tale had not ended happily for the animal.

"Dead. Single shot to the skull. Merciful, if what my cousin claimed was true, that his leg had been broken when he was dancing to avoid the snarling fox and stepped into a badger hole."

"You sound skeptical," Aramis noted as the swordsman paused again.

"The gelding's front leg was broken, that was easily seen. But as to how it occurred . . . Gerard was alone in that clearing for ten minutes on his own. That is a long time for someone bent on…" Athos couldn't come up with the right word to finish the sentence. Mischief? Cruelty? Sadism? Murder, was probably the best one.

As predicted, my father wasn't pleased that one of his horses had been killed and my father blamed me, since I had been the one that had given my cousin the horse to ride. Had I stayed on my own mount, he had reasoned, it wouldn't have ended the way it did. Once again, he claimed, I didn't act like a man, but a simpering fool."

"Because you tried to save a horse from more cruelty?" Aramis declared, shocked.

"My father was a…practical man," Athos said carefully, as if he were weighing each word.

"How is it practical to beat on a horse?"

"A horse is meant to serve. As is a hunting dog, a servant, or a son. If the job the animal or person is supposed to do, is not being done… steps have to be taken," Athos explained, unable to keep the bitter edge from his words.

They lapsed into silence for a long time as the blizzard raged on. Finally, Athos picked up his tale and finished it. "That was the last time I saw my cousin, though I occasionally heard…stories. He was nearly nineteen and later that year his father passed and he inherited his father's lands. His mother died shortly thereafter. My mother, once her sister was dead, felt there was no reason to visit the children. I don't think she was actually that fond of her sister or her family. Makes me wonder, did the cruel streak my cousin seemed to possess run in the family."

"Are you saying your mother was cruel?" Aramis asked in a surprised tone.

"My mother wasn't cruel. Not that I ever saw. Distracted, perhaps. She doted on my brother Thomas."

But, Aramis silently noted, not on you, her first born, which, in the marksman's mind, was a form of cruelty. "So, when we were sent to the estate…"

"It was the first time I'd seen Gerard in nearly twenty years. I'd heard he'd married well and had children. I guess I assumed he'd outgrown his cruel streak."

"But a leopard doesn't change its spots. You don't believe that all those people, your cousin's wife and children, servants, were murdered by a band of thieves, as he claimed. You thought he did it," Aramis correctly surmised. "If so, that is…" Lost for words, Aramis shook his head in disbelief.

"And so, to answer your original question, I could have been fully intending to serve as judge, jury and executioner. As shameful and as wrong as it would have been to take the law into my own hands, how could I live with myself if he were to be let free, again, to carry on his…sickness. I didn't stop him all those years ago, never told anyone what I had seen. Turned a blind eye to other... events, that I heard of. Perhaps if I acted back then, his wife, children and who knows how many others would be alive."

"But you didn't shoot him."

"Or wasn't successful." Ruefully, he added, "Another…failure on my part."

"In the end, justice was served for he was hanged." Aramis got the feeling Athos didn't quite feel as positive about the outcome as he did and the medic was pretty sure he knew why. "It's not your fault, Athos."

"Why not?" the swordsman challenged. "Had I done something about him back when…"

"Would anyone have believed you? A child? Would your parents? Your Aunt or Uncle? Could you have gone up to them and told them their first born, adored son was insane? A killer? Would they have believed you?" he repeated. Athos didn't answer, nor did Aramis suspect he would.

Aramis rose and made them another pot of mint water, which, after it steeped, he poured into the metal mugs which they both gratefully cupped their hands around. They hadn't eaten in more than 24 hours and the 'tea' did little to curb the gnawing in their frozen bellies.

"Be not overcome by evil, but overcome evil by good," Aramis suddenly quoted, seemingly out of the blue.

Athos cocked an eyebrow at his religious friend. "Is your brain that frozen it took you that long to come up with a suitable Bible verse?"

"I do admit, I'm not quite as sharp as I usually am. Normally, inspirational verses dance on the tip of my tongue." Athos' snort told Aramis exactly what he thought of his quote. "How about this one. 'Depart from evil, and do good; and dwell for evermore.' Surely that is comforting for even if we do evil, God is willing to forgive us."

Athos stared at the fire once more, thinking of his past and the things he had done, knowing he was doomed to the depths of hell. "Six things there are, which the Lord hateth, and the seventh his soul detesteth: Haughty eyes, a lying tongue, hands that shed innocent blood. A heart that deviseth wicked plots, feet that are swift to run into mischief. A deceitful witness that uttereth lies, and him that soweth discord among brethren." He gave a bitter smile. "I fear I have crossed many of those paths."

"You can't seriously believe you have done all those things," Aramis exclaimed before lapsing into silence and thinking about that Bible passage. Leave it to the well-educated Athos to come up with a set of verses that would send almost everyone to hell, at least the way Athos interpreted them. The wind howled again, sending some errant snow into the shelter. Could this get any worse, Aramis wondered. Was it their fate to die here?

Then, the verse that always comforted him, even on the darkest night, came to his frost-bitten brain. 'For God so loved the world, as to give his only begotten Son; that whosoever believeth in him, may not perish, but may have life everlasting.' Faith had seen him through many things and it would see him through this too.


	14. Chapter 14

CHAPTER 14

D'Artagnan was wearing a groove in the stone floor of the Abbey, in front of the windows overlooking the fields surrounding the stone structure. He originally had been pacing in front of a window that overlooked the inner courtyard and had gotten all excited when the snow seemed to cease coming down. He'd run to find Porthos, insisting the storm was over and they could ride forth.

Considering he could still hear the ungodly roaring of the wind, his fellow musketeer found this hard to believe, but he followed the lad to a window. Sure enough, the snow in the courtyard seemed significantly lighter. "Well, pup, it appears you are right. I guess we can depart."

"Depart?" the Abbott who'd once again silently glided into their presence. "I could never allow that in good conscience.'

"Beggin' your pardon, Father, but the storm has let up and we have to go search for our brothers." D'Artagnan hoped he sounded more diplomatic then he felt.

"Follow me, please," the Abbott requested as he glided smoothly away.

"He got wheels under there?" Porthos whispered to d'Artagnan as they trailed after the priest.

"Classes, as I said before. And practice," the man humbly stated as they moved down a long stone corridor. They finally turned right into a small room, with two windows, two cots, a table, chairs and a fireplace. "I will have a fire drawn for you in here while you wait."

"Again, begging your pardon, but a fire would be a waste for we are departing, very soon," d'Artagnan insisted once more.

As if the musketeer hadn't spoken, the Abbott continued on. "I shall have food brought and some extra blankets. It's going to be a cold night."

D'Artagnan opened his mouth to protest once more, but the Abbott cut him off. "If you please, gentlemen, let us look out the window together."

An exasperated glance passed between them, but the musketeers went over to the windows with the man-of-God.

"If you'd be so kind as to gaze out the windows and tell me what you perceive."

Two sets of brown eyes peered out the window and observed the whiteout conditions of a blizzard. "Damn!" Porthos swore once more before giving the Abbott a sheepish look.

"God forgives you my son."

D'Artagnan, who was still staring out the window, was mystified. "But at the other window it had slowed, almost stopped snowing. Here it is worse than ever."

"A shift in the wind. My fault for leaving you in a room of false hopes. Those windows face the inner courtyard, which is protected by tall stone walls, as you saw when you rode in. The wind only blows in the courtyard from the East. When the wind shifted, it appeared that the storm had ended. But it has not and in actuality, I believe it has gotten worse. But, the monks are still praying for your friends as God wills."

"Well God better will they live," Porthos grumbled. "They are my brothers. I don't know how I'd be able to go on if they…" The streetfighter voice trailed off, choked once more with emotion.

"God doesn't give us more than we can bear," the Abbott quietly stated.

"That ain't fully reassuring, Father."

"God's ways are mysterious."

Porthos had enough of the priest's brand of comfort, which he was finding distinctly uncomfortable. So he changed the discussion. "Did you say something about food?"

"Yes. Of course." The Abbot stepped into the hallway and called after the monk who had just lit the fire in the chamber. After instructing him to bring food and drink, he stepped back into the room in time to see Artagnan pick up his pacing again in front of the two new windows.

"Perhaps," the Abbott suggested as he moved to sit in one of the chairs by the newly lit fire, "you could tell me about these brothers of yours. Surely they are not family for your skin tones indicate otherwise."

"They are family in every way that counts," d'Artagnan declared as he moved away from the window and perched in a chair by the fire. "I owe my life to them many times over."

"We are brothers of blood, of battle," Porthos added, taking the final chair. "We have each other's backs through thick and thin. A bond that can't be broken."

"A slight to one is slight to all," d'Artagnan declared before growing quiet. It made him think upon their personal motto, the sparingly few times they had used it, the power in it and behind it. To not ever say it again while clasping his brothers' hands was impossible to conceive.

Porthos knew exactly what path the lad's mind had turned down, for he had traveled on the same one. It wasn't a motto, a simple battle call. It was who they were, who they were supposed to be. It was their life's code.

Nature chose that moment to blast pellets of ice against the window and rattle them with gale force winds. The men in the room suddenly found it hard to believe that anyone could survive such a storm. The Abbott sent another swift prayer to his boss for he sensed the bond they spoke of in these two and if it was as strong in the other two, well Porthos was right, the death of one could well be the death of all.

His many years of experience had taught him brooding wasn't the answer to anything and that faith and trust in the Lord was the answer to all. So, he circled back to his original tactic of distraction by asking them to tell some stories of their adventures.

And so, went by many hours, filled with eating, drinking and the two musketeers regaling him with their tales of adventure. Finally, sensing the two men might be close enough to the edge of exhaustion to sleep, the Abbott took his leave, suggesting they take to the cots and try to catch a few hours of sleep before the morning vespers.

After taking one last look out the window, and finding no change from what it had been the last two dozen times he checked, d'Artagnan gave in to sleep, falling on the nearest cot and going out like a flame in the wind. Porthos lay on the other bed, thinking he wouldn't be able to sleep for his worry, but surprisingly he too soon nodded off.

Back in his own bed chambers, the Abbott knelt on his prie-dieu and settled in to beseech his God to watch over the two missing musketeers.


	15. Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

They were running out of everything. Firewood, warmth, ways to stay awake, and even the desire to do so. The last trip they had made, together, to gather firewood left them so cold and exhausted that they had barely made it back to the campsite. Considering the island was hardly a quarter mile wide in its widest part, it spoke volumes about their stamina and condition.

They had stumbled back into the shelter and held each other as they shivered so violently and for so long they wondered if all their muscles would tear apart. Finally, the shaking subsided which, to the medic, wasn't all that reassuring. The mint leaves had been used up and they hadn't thought to get more when they were stumbling about getting firewood. Wood was imperative. Mint was not.

On one of the infrequent trips outside to take care of nature, Aramis, who still had Athos' knife, which he had taken earlier to whittle down a branch, saw a bunny on the snow. It didn't seem nearly as intolerant of the cold as he. A quick knife throw and they had food. It wasn't a very large rabbit, but they had roasted it and sucked every bone dry. The food helped replenish some of the energy the cold was leeching out of them.

While the food brought them much needed sustenance, it also made it harder for them to stay awake as their sluggish metabolism worked on digesting the meal.

"Athos," Aramis said loudly, for he had seen the swordsman's eyes closing. "Do you know what today's date is?"

"No. Nor do I care," he got back as a mumbled reply.

"Open your eyes!" Aramis commanded firmly. "We didn't come this far to give up now."

"Are you sure?"

"Athos!"

He knew Aramis was right and he was being selfish to leave his brothers behind, so he forced open his blurry green eyes. "The date?"

"What? Oh yes. Today is the day, before the day, before the day, before the day, before the birth of our Lord." He paused a moment. "Well, I think it is. I may have lost track of time."

"That seems a very convoluted way to look at it," Athos yawned as he ran a hand over the back of his neck and stretched his cramped muscles.

"And, do you know what we'd be doing if we were back in Paris," Aramis asked of his sleepy friend, ignoring the snide comment on his counting.

Unable to stifle another yawn, the swordsman mumbled, "Guard duty?"

"Yes, but where?"

"Palace," Athos answered, already growing tired of this game of questions.

"Well of course the Palace. But what would be going on?"

"I don't care. Guard duty is guard duty. Boring, but necessary."

Aramis drew his knees to his chest and rested his chin upon them. "The party. The King and Queen's holiday soiree. She always looks so beautiful in her gowns, the Queen that is."

"Didn't think you meant the King, or Rochefort."

"Even pregnant she will look beautiful. Carrying our child."

"Aramis!" Athos barked sharply.

"What? Aren't we alone?"

Glaring at his brother, Athos lectured him severely. "He is not your son. He will never be your son. Hell, he might not even BE your son!"

"He is. I know it. He is our son."

"Damn it to hell, stop saying that. Never. Even if we are alone. It is treason."

Aramis gave a heartfelt sigh. "Do you know what it is like to have something in front of your that you can never grasp? The pain and suffering?" Pausing a moment, he thought back on something Captain Treville had said about Athos and Milady. "Actually, you do know. The only difference is yours won't get you hanged."

"But yours will, get you and me both hanged," Athos said with no bitterness, for he had forgiven his brother for the danger he had put them all in long ago.

"I wonder, is being hanged for sleeping with the Queen better than dying from cold after falling in a river?"

"If you don't stop talking about the Queen,' Athos threatened, "I am going to take you outside and let you experience both, hanging and freezing to death simultaneously."

Silence settled over the pine bough lean-to and once again Athos found his eyes dropping shut.

"Athos!" Aramis barked, again startling him awake.

"How the hell is it you are staying awake," Athos groused as he shifted his position to find one that was actually less comfortable. He was tempted to bump his ribs or slap the burn on his forearm repetitively if that is what it took to stay awake. The burn, he feared was showing signs of an infection.

"I have an idea. As it is nearly Christmas, let us sing," Aramis happily suggested, for he loved singing carols in the church at midnight mass on Christmas eve.

"No."

"Surely you can sing." Pausing for a moment, he thought hard. "I think you sang once when you were drunk. A sea shanty of a rather dubious origin."

"All sea shanties are of a dubious origin. It is the environment and the audience for which they are intended."

"And where did a nice Comte like you learn such colorful ditties," the marksman asked with a sly smile.

"Probably heard if from you. Or Porthos. Maybe d'Artagnan, though I find that highly unlikely."

"I beg your pardon…"

"Don't bother."

"…but my musical repertory is solely based on the music of the church."

That actually caused Athos to snort. "My friend, more than once I have heard you singing the song about the farmer's daughter who raised ducks and liked to…"

"And, perhaps," Aramis interjected, "I know one or two songs I have heard in a tavern."

"Perhaps," Athos echoed as a shiver overcame his body, making his muscles ache once more and his teeth chatter. "I'm so damn cold," he muttered as the spasm ceased.

"Get up. March in place. Get your blood circulating," Aramis instructed as he rose to his own feet, dragging Athos up with him.

They both felt silly as they marched in place, in their braies, wrapped in blankets, but it did help warm them up. Soon though, they were back seated for they didn't have the energy to sustain the exercise for long.

"The sun has set," Aramis remarked as he reached out and poked at the fire to keep it burning evenly.

"It set hours ago," Athos informed him.

"Oh," Aramis said flatly. At least he had lost track of time in a good manner. "So, you know what that means?"

"You can't tell time?"

"It's even closer to Christmas," Aramis announced cheerfully, ignoring the humbug in the pine shelter. "Now we really need to sing carols."

"No."

"I think we have already covered that ground," Aramis declared. "Ok, if you won't sing I will just have to entertain us both." With that he launched into a rousing rendition of 'I Saw Three Ships' that went on for an eternity.

Aramis had a pleasant voice bordering on a countertenor, not that Athos told the marksman that fact. What the swordsman did say was, "You made that up."

"I assure you that song is all the rage in the Palaces of Europe."

"I thought you said your musical repertory came from the church."

"And," Aramis stated in a superior tone, "some of the more progressive churches are singing that tune."

"In Latin? At high mass?"

"Well no," the marksman said with a slight shake of his head. "But other services, in French."

Athos made a grunting noise that indicated he wasn't buying into that tale. "And you made up the last twenty-two verses."

"To keep you entertained. And now I'll move on to my next song."

The sweet strains of the 'Coventry Carol' filled the lean-to, Aramis' voice weaving the soothing melody. If Aramis heard Athos humming along under his breath, he gave no indication, just kept singing. Through the long night, Aramis sang all the songs he knew, and repeated, until he finally fell silent, his throat sore.

Looking out the door, hoping to see the sky lightening, Aramis was disappointed to see no signs of the dawn. It truly was an endless night. His eyes grew heavy as did his heart. He'd never be able to sing to his own child. Giving in to the temptation of sleep, he let his eyes close.

Athos realized Aramis had gone silent and he roused himself enough to peer over at his brother and saw his eyes were shut. "Aramis wake up!" he commanded repeatedly, but to no avail. Reaching over, he gave his brother a shake and only got a mumbled, unintelligible reply.

Softly, a song began to weave itself into the night air, carried by a strong tenor.

"Noël nouvelet, Noël chantons ici,  
Dévotes gens, crions à Dieu merci !

Chantons Noël pour le Roi nouvelet !  
Chantons Noël pour le Roi nouvelet !

Noël nouvelet, Noël chantons ici !

L'ange disait! pasteurs partez d'ici!  
En Bethléem trouverez l'angelet.  
Chantons Noël pour le Roi nouvelet !  
Chantons Noël pour le Roi nouvelet !

Noël nouvelet, Noël chantons ici !

En Bethléem, étant tous réunis,

Trouvèrent l'enfant, Joseph, Marie aussi.

Chantons Noël pour le Roi nouvelet !  
Chantons Noël pour le Roi nouvelet !

Noël nouvelet, Noël chantons ici !

Bientôt, les Rois, par l'étoile éclaircis,

A Bethléem vinrent une matinée.

Chantons Noël pour le Roi nouvelet !  
Chantons Noël pour le Roi nouvelet !

Noël nouvelet, Noël chantons ici !

L'un partait l'or; l'autre l'encens bem;

L'étable alors au Paradis semblait.

Chantons Noël pour le Roi nouvelet !  
Chantons Noël pour le Roi nouvelet !

Noël nouvelet, Noël chantons ici !

Aramis opened his eyes and listened as Athos sang to the wind and for the love of his brother, to keep him awake.

"You have a beautiful voice." If it weren't so cold, he'd swear Athos' blushed.

"Look," Athos said, clearing his throat. "Outside."

Aramis turned his eyes from his brother to the sky outside. Dawn had broken. The storm had subsided. They had survived the night. Now all they had to do was escape this island and somehow make it back to Paris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Per the web - NOËL NOUVELET HISTORY AND MEANING
> 
> This traditional French carol dates from the late 15th century and the early 16th century. This carol celebrates all of the figures in the crèche, the handmade nativity scenes found throughout France, where they are part of the Christmas celebration in homes and in town squares. This song would be sung by families at home and at community gatherings rather than as part of the liturgy in Roman Catholic churches at the time it was written. There are many versions found from those early centuries. Translations into English and variations in French would all be colored by the denominational differences between Christian faiths and doctrines.
> 
> The song is in a minor key, in Dorian mode. It shares its first five notes with the hymn, "Ave, Maris Stella Lucens Miseris". The tune is used in the English version, "Sing We Now of Christmas."
> 
> I have heard the modern rendition of this song, 'Sing We Now of Christmas' on a Fred Waring recording (old) as well as a version by the acapella group Straight No Chaser (newer). The minor key gives it a haunting sound that is lovely.


	16. Chapter 16

CHAPTER 16

Though anxious, Porthos and d'Artagnan did manage to sleep, realizing that they'd do their brothers no good if they were not able to function. They woke with the dawn and saw, as the sun rose, that the snow had stopped. The Abbott convinced them, with difficulty, to take time to eat before they mounted and rode out of the Abbey. He did ensure their saddlebags were stuffed with food and he also gave them two of the warmest robes his brothers wore, thinking they might come in handy when they found their missing companions. And, he assured them, the monks would continue to pray for the safe return to Paris of their missing brothers, as well as themselves.

The two musketeers decided they would ride along the river and up to the spot where their missing brothers seemed to have left the trail. The problem was that if they had fallen into the river and survived, they could have crawled out on either side.

"We need to split up, one ride on one side and one along the other," d'Artagnan recommended as they mounted the horses in the Abbey's courtyard.

The Abbott, standing nearby said, "There is a crossing, a bridge, a few miles up the road."

It was decided that d'Artagnan would go to the other side, while Porthos stayed on this side. In order to keep in sync, Porthos would wait, behind the Abbey by the river, until he spotted d'Artagnan on the other side of the Seine. Then they would move forward, keeping track of each other in case one found signs. They quickly decided on a few broad arm motions to convey basic information, because the river was too wide to allow for voice communications. If they lost sight of each other because of the terrain, they'd stop at the next open area until the other was spotted. It wasn't a perfect plan, but it was a start.

D'Artagnan took off at a good clip out the Abbey's gate, his horse kicking the freshly fallen snow into the air. Porthos stayed and talked with the Abbott for a while before walking his mount at a more sedate pace towards the river. It would take the youngest musketeer a while to get to the bridge and then make his way back up the river to the Abbey. Porthos hoped the Gascon, eager as he was to find their missing friends, used good sense and caution. The lad was still impetuous and headstrong at times.

It was a slow and tedious process trying to scout the area along the river and slightly inland. They were going on the assumption that when their friends got out of the water, they would not have been able to go too far and would seek some sort of shelter as quickly as possible. The hope of finding any tracks was nil because of the freshly fallen snow.

A couple of times Porthos' heart beat faster when he saw signs that might be them, but each time it turned out to be nothing. His spirits were beginning to flag as the day wore on. D'Artagnan was experiencing the same thing on his side of the river. False alarms and false hopes. Each time he caught sight of Porthos on the other side of the river, he prayed he would see the musketeer raise his arm in the agreed upon 'I found them' signal. And each time, when he didn't, more doubt crept into his mind.

-MMMM-

Aramis gathered up their leathers, which were dry, but cold and stiff, and brought them over to the shelter side of the fire. Slowly, like old men, they put them on, though it was a challenge to get some of the buttons done. It took a toll on their exhausted bodies and in silent agreement, they wrapped themselves in the blankets again and sat by the fire to gather their strength.

Aramis stated the obvious. "We need to find a way off this island." Athos gave a quick nod to show he heard. "Scout the perimeter." He glanced over at the swordsman and saw his eyes were nearly closed. Neither one of them had slept in close to 48 hours; they needed to get some sleep, even if only a quick nap.

When Athos' eyes completely closed, and his body slumped, Aramis left him alone. He'd let the weary man catch a few hours of sleep, then he would wake him and take a nap himself. The medic in him said without some sleep they'd never be successful in any attempt to leave this place.

As it happened Aramis didn't have to wake Athos. Thrashing under the blanket, followed by a moan told the marksman Athos would soon be awake. The green eyes flew open, desperately scanning the area looking for whatever was torturing him in his nightmares. They brushed past, then settled back on Aramis and calmed. For a moment Athos' walls were down as he watched Aramis, and the marksman realized how much younger Athos appeared when the weight of his conscience was not on his shoulders. Much too soon the walls resurrected themselves, closing him off from the world once more. Even given the number of years they had known each other, and the closeness between them, embarrassment colored the chameleon green eyes as the swordsman sheepishly glanced away.

"I don't ever judge you, Athos," Aramis said softly.

I judge myself, and I have found myself... lacking," Athos muttered as he stared at the fire. "Though your sentiments are...appreciated."

Lying on his side and drawing the blanket tight around him, Aramis declared, "I know you aren't likely to go back to sleep, so I shall take my nap. Two hours. No more. And don't go off on your own, please."

Athos waited for about ten minutes, until he thought Aramis was truly slumbering, then he tossed off the blanket and, in a wobbly fashion, stood up. After stretching his sore muscles, Athos took a deep breath, then doubled over in pain. His ribs started aching again as well as the burn on his arm. Taking shallow, almost panting breaths, he slowly willed the pain into remission. When it was manageable, he draped his blanket over his brother's slumbering form.

Quickly glancing to make sure he hadn't disturbed Aramis' sleep, he was relieved to find the man still slumbering. Moving cautiously, he stepped out into the weak sunshine, glancing over at the wood pile. If they were to spend another night on this island, they'd need more wood.

After one last check over his shoulder at Aramis, he moved away from the camp to the outer edge of the left side of the island. Gazing across the river to the far shore, he saw nothing obvious that would help them escape. The bank of the river was much too far away for them to swim, given the conditions. Gingerly, watching for icy patches, he circled the island counter-clockwise, looking for anything that would help them get off this place. There was no magic bridge, no boat . . . nothing.

When he came to the right side, the side they had been riding down, he stood a long time staring at the river bank. It wasn't quite as wide as the left side; the island was obviously not centered in the river. But still, it appeared too far. If they tried to swim, they'd likely get too cold to complete the trip.

With a frustrated sigh, he gathered dead fall branches and carried them back to their little lean-to, stacking them neatly to one side of the fire. He was careful not to bang anything against his side as he made three more trips to get wood. When he felt they were sufficiently stocked, Athos sat down next to Aramis, stole back his blanket and rewrapped himself in it. Even though he'd been moving, he still was extremely cold.

He sat for quite a while before a voice broke the silence. "Did you forget to wake me?" Aramis questioned as he sat up and noted the lengthening shadows on the ground. "We need to figure out how to get off this rock."

"I fear," Athos spoke slowly, "that to accomplish that we will need outside assistance. I circled the island and saw no opportunities." Athos felt like sighing when he saw the look of disbelief and dismay on Aramis' face since he knew a lecture was going to follow.

"You circled the island. Alone?" Aramis asked with deceptive casualness that didn't deceive the swordsman.

Athos kept quiet and waited for Aramis to go on for the lecture was far from over.

"And you thought this...appropriate? To circle the island. Alone?"

"Yes." He would have cocked an eyebrow at him, but he was too cold to bother. So instead, Athos used his haughty Comte tone, perfected over the years. "Is there a problem?"

"You don't see how that is a problem, after I told you not to go anywhere. What if you had fallen? Out there in the snow?"

"I didn't."

"You didn't," Aramis related. "And if you had? And hurt yourself and been forced to lay in the snow?"

Athos just stared at him as if his question was asinine.

With a sigh Aramis gave in. Holding up his hand, as if forestall the swordsman from speaking.

"I give up. You are impossible. So, let's move on. How do we get help?"

"I have been mulling over that question. A fire. On the shore. If Porthos and d'Artagnan are looking for us, perhaps they will spot the smoke or flames."

"That seems…"

"Like a long shot, yes," Athos acknowledged truthfully. "Or we could take our chances in the river once more."

Aramis could barely suppress the shiver that suggestion brought on. The icy cold river? Even if they did make it to the river's bank, they would be thoroughly wet once more. It was a miracle they had found this old camp. It was the only reason they were still alive. What were the chances of them finding another shelter on the other side before they froze to death.

"I can't see us surviving another trip in that river. I fear we are already on the edge of hypothermia."

Athos nodded. "So then, a fire it is."

They rose and set about building a pyre on the edge of the island. The wind picked up as they toiled through the remainder of the afternoon at their task. At Aramis' insistence, they took regular breaks, went back to their fire and shelter to get warm and drink the hot mint water Aramis brewed with his newly plucked leaves. Both musketeers came to appreciate the person or persons who had built this little campsite. It cleverly took advantage of the trees and rocks to provide a windbreak. Each time they left the campsite to go back to building their pyre, the wind would hit them, insidiously draining them of their little remaining strength. Their goal was to build a self-sustaining fire that would require little care during the deadly night ahead.

They finished just after sunset. Using Athos' flint, they set their wooden masterpiece on fire, then stood back from it and simply watched as the greedy flames licked up the wood. The triangular shaped tower was fairly tall and they judged its glow should be visible for miles. The night sky was once again cloud covered and black as squid's ink, which helped make the fire even more noticeable.

They fumbled their way back to their camp, and Aramis made yet more of the herb-laced hot water. It did little to ease the hunger pains, but it did keep them somewhat hydrated. Even had they been in any condition to hunt, the island seemed to have little game other than birds flying overhead. He wondered what the previous occupant did for food and how he got to and from the island. Perhaps a boat that was kept on the mainland somewhere.

"I guess you didn't see a boat when you walked around the outer edge of the island?" Aramis asked out of idle curiosity. Athos gave him a strange look, which caused Aramis to hastily add, "Of course not, or you would have said. Don't mind me. The cold has frozen my good sense."

Athos snorted at that remark as if to say that Aramis had no good sense whether he was cold or not.

Looking wounded, Aramis sniffed. "That wasn't very nice," and in turn received a small apologetic head tilt from Athos.

The sun set and from their shelter, they could see the light from their signal fire flickering in the night. As the temperature dropped again, they huddled together to share the little heat each gave off as well as double the blankets. When Aramis dozed off, Athos purposely made sure he stayed awake, in case, he didn't know what, but something, happened.

The early hours of the night passed without incident, with Aramis slumbering and Athos keeping watch by night. He thought the glow in the sky from their bonfire was diminishing, so he slipped out from under the blankets to investigate.

Into the bitter cold he went, his breath nearly driven from his lungs as he left the shelter of their camp. Some of the wood they had used to build the pyre had been damp and it had affected how the fire was burning. One side was smoking rather than producing flames. Searching the pile of wood, they had stacked earlier, he found drier pieces and shored up the one side of their signal fire. Soon it was burning brightly and firmly again. The wind picked up once more and the flames danced back and forth in the currents.

Though the fire was putting off heat, the wind was zapping it away so, shivering, Athos turned to head back to the lean-to. A few yards before the edge of the camp, Athos' body was suddenly wracked by shivers that made his knees turn to water and he collapsed onto the snowy ground. His ribs screamed in agony when he hit the frozen ground. He lay there for a minute; his muscles having turned into mush. When he attempted to push himself to his knees, he found his traitorous body would not obey.

Flopping back onto the snow, he realized that it felt deliciously cold on his skin. A fever, from the burn on his arm which had gotten infected, had overcome him, but his brain was too muddled to figure that out. He just knew it felt good to lie in the snow, so he stopped struggling and let the overwhelming tiredness drag him off into oblivion.


	17. Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

By dusk they had slowly and meticulously searched on their respective sides of the river, until they reached the area where they believe their two friends had fallen into the water. A bit more upstream from that point, was a bridge and through a series of hand-gestures, d'Artagnan indicated he would ride there and rejoin Porthos on his side of the river.

After the younger musketeer had ridden off, Porthos had passed the time eating some of the trail rations that the Abbott had given them and searching the area for any other clues, of which he found none in the dusk. The sound of hoof beats eventually met his ears and instinctively he reached for his pistol. However, a greeting whinny from his gelding to his stablemate set him at ease.

"What now?" d'Artagnan asked as he drew his horse alongside the small fire Porthos had built.

"You get down, give that horse a rest and eat something yourself." The Gascon looked as if he was about to protest. "We can't find them if we get hurt ourselves. Eat, rest for a bit. It's very dark and the road is still icy. We'll stay here until it gets light."

After d'Artagnan finished eating, and they rubbed the horses down, they wrapped themselves in their cloaks and bedrolls, got close to the fire and took turns catching some sleep while they waited for the dawn. Once a hint of light appeared in the east, they shook off their fatigue, put out the fire, readied the horses and then slowly moved down the road that was glistening like diamonds in the pre-dawn light.

-MMMM-

Aramis woke with a start when a cold tendril worked its way down his back. Shivering, he realized two things, the fire had burned low and Athos was missing. Springing to his feet as fast as his cold-numbed body could manage, he moved outside and scanned about, expecting Athos to be nearby, perhaps stoking the fire. But his eyes registered emptiness.

"Where the hell are you, Athos," he muttered, half-worried and half-annoyed. He told Athos not to leave the campsite on his own. There was really only one logical way in and out of the campsite, so Aramis walked that way, shivering when the strong winds hit him. He had only taken a few steps when he saw a dark shadow on the snow. It didn't take long to ascertain it was Athos. Stumbling over to the prone body, he dropped onto his knees, not even registering the pain that ripped through his frozen bones.

As he reached out to check for a pulse, he realized the snow surrounding Athos had started to melt and he knew exactly why as his hand drew close to the musketeer's skin. The man was afire with fever. His questing fingers found a pulse, but no amount of verbal or physical stimuli would awake the man. So with some reluctance, he grabbed Athos by the back collar of his doublet and tediously dragged him back to the shelter. The whole way he cursed himself for not checking Athos over, especially the burn he'd inflicted on the man's arm. Aramis, as an experience medic, knew that burns are apt to get infected. This freezing weather had not only numbed his body but also his common sense.

Once inside their pine bough shelter, he maneuvered Athos onto a blanket, though when he tried to wrap it about Athos' body, the man shrugged it off, muttering incomprehensible words. Gripping the tin cup, he found some previously melted snow in their pot that hadn't been turned into 'tea' yet, nor had it refrozen. Carrying this over to Athos, he propped the man up and cajoled and forced the now semi-conscious man into ingesting the liquid.

That seemed to help revive the musketeer a little, as his eyes cracked open. "What happened?" he slurred as he peered about with unfocused eyes.

"It would seem," Aramis stated as he set the cup aside, "you decided to go for a midnight stroll and forgot the way home."

Trying to push his jelly limbs into obeying, Athos struggled to sit up. Aramis helped him, sitting next to him and wrapping his hands around Athos' middle which elicited a groan.

"You are hurt?" Aramis said with concern, as he withdrew his hand from around Athos's middle and moved to support him more from the back.

Athos grunted a bit, squirmed and finally settled against Aramis' chest. "Ribs. Banged. Rocks. River."

While Aramis would have loved to make Athos take off his doublet and shirt so he could see for himself what was going on, he knew it was a poor idea. The man had survived this long, so the risk that a lung was punctured was probably minimal. Still they needed to be careful not to injure them further.

"What were you doing out there? I told you not to leave this place alone," Aramis scolded, his fright for his brother overcoming him. "You could have died out there."

"Signal fire out."

"And you didn't think to wake me." He didn't expect to get an answer and he didn't, so he moved on. "Well the good and bad news is you have a fever, a high one at that. It probably kept you from freezing to death in the snow. But…" he let his voice trail off because he didn't know what to say. The same fever that saved his life could easily kill him tomorrow.

"I need to examine that burn on your arm, see if it is infected," Aramis demanded but Athos simply shook his head. "Why not?"

"I'd have to take my coat off. And shirt. Too many buttons. Too cold. You have nothing to treat it with. Waste of time. And," he slurred, his voice growing weak, "I am too tired."

He felt Athos drifting off to sleep and he tried to make them both a bit more comfortable. The only good thing was the excess heat pouring off of Athos was making Aramis warm, the warmest he had been in a long time. Glancing one last time at their fire, he deemed it was sufficiently fed to last through the rest of the night. Raising his eyes to the sky, which now had a bright moon in it, he saw he could still see the light of their signal fire. Nothing more to be done, other than pray. So, he did just that and then drifted off to sleep.

-MMMM-

Porthos and d'Artagnan rode for an hour before they noticed something strange. Dawn was coming and they weren't sure of what they were seeing, but it appeared as if there was a glowing in the middle of the river. They dismounted, and picked their way down the slope towards the Seine's edge and, in the pink light of dawn, they saw the tiny island.

"You don't suppose," d'Artagnan said quietly, as they stood, shoulder to shoulder, on the edge of the river.

A note of hope crept into Porthos' voice. "The river carried them onto the island? They can't get off so they built a signal fire? Makes sense to me."

Porthos and d'Artagnan scanned the area to the left and right of the pyre, but didn't see any signs of their two missing brothers.

"We've gotta get on that island," Porthos said desperately as he continued to shift his gaze from the fire to the surrounding area. That mysterious six sense they possessed was telling his gut his brothers were on that island. But were they alright? "Ideas country boy? If we were in the city…," the child who grew up in the Court of Miracles shook his head and shrugged, "Out here, especially dealing with water, not my area of expertise."

The farmer turned musketeer studied the island, the river surrounding it and then the banks on both sides. Both of them had coils of rope attached to their saddles, but as single lengths they wouldn't reach the island. Tied together maybe. He could tie the ropes together, then around his waist, swim across the river and explore the island. But if they were there, how would he get them back to this side of the river? Have Porthos and the horses drag them back one at a time? That would be a lot of trips through the deadly cold water, and if his brothers were injured it wouldn't be an option at all.

Scanning the banks, there was no sign of a vessel of any sort, boat, canoe, raft; that would be too easy. He debated about building a raft, but they didn't have an axe to chop down trees and it would take too long. There was no telling what condition Aramis and Athos were in, if they indeed were on the island at all. If they weren't there, every minute spent here was a waste. Maybe it was worth braving the water and swimming across, to see if they were there.

"I'll swim across and see if they are there," he announced as he began to unbutton his coat. A firm hand stopped him.

"No, you won't. It's too cold if you are wrong. Then you'll be wet and in this weather, that will kill."

"But Porthos, if they are there…"

"Find another way. They won't thank you for endangering yourself needlessly on their account," he said firmly, even though Porthos wished he could swim well enough to go check. But if they weren't there and they had to continue to search, a wet d'Artagnan would be a serious liability.

Scanning up and down the river banks, d'Artagnan wished a bridge would magically appear. His eyes lit on two trees, hanging low over the river. Their roots were exposed due to the erosion of the river's bank. It appeared a good firm push might have them toppling over and floating away. An idea started forming in his head, though he didn't know how well it would work. If there was no bridge, maybe they could make their own.

"What I'm thinking is those two trees." D'Artagnan pointed up the river towards the two leaning oak trees, which, because they were nearly dead, had lost most of their branches and were somewhat bare. "I think if we can knock them into the stream, we can use them to build a bridge."

Porthos eyed the trees dubiously. "They don't appear long enough to span the space. And how would you keep them from floating away?"

All very good questions, d'Artagnan thought as he worked through the scenario in his mind once more. "Ropes. We each have a coil of rope. We tie them to the ends of the trees and using the horses we should be able to keep them from floating away."

"And to span the river, reach the island, if you could lash them together, almost end to end, I think they will reach," Porthos suggested as he let his eyes travel up the height of each tree. "Narrow to walk on. Doable for you maybe, but if they are injured…"

"One thing at a time. First let's see if they are truly there." With that d'Artagnan headed back towards the horses, with Porthos following behind after giving one last look at the island.


	18. Chapter 18

CHAPTER 18

Dawn found the sunshine breaking out from behind the clouds, but Athos' fever did not break. Aramis could still feel the heat radiating from his groggy brother. Selfishly, he had to admit that the fevered man had kept him toasty warm last night and he'd gotten a few hours of quality sleep. But, he knew it was not good for the swordsman.

Leaving a half-awake Athos lying on the ground, he took care of his morning business and then set a pot of water to melt on the fire. He could tell, by the color of their urine, that dehydration was becoming more and more of an issue and he vowed to ensure they both drank more today. Also, if they didn't get off this hunk of dirt and trees they'd have to find some sort of sustenance. They couldn't go much longer without food.

When the herb laced water was ready and cooled, Aramis helped Athos prop himself up against the shelter's back and placed the cup in his hand, encouraging him to drink. Athos' hand shook as he raised the cup to his chapped lips, and some spilt down the front of his jacket. Without being intrusive, Aramis leant a steadying hand so the liquid ended up in, not on, his brother.

When the cup was empty, he took it back, debating if he should try to get the fevered man to drink another one, but as if reading his mind, Athos shook his head, indicating he was done for now.

"Well later than," Aramis said aloud as he placed the cup back on the fire.

"We need to go check on the fire," Athos huffed out, as he struggled to rise.

Aramis placed a hand on his shoulder and offered an alternative. "I need to check on the bonfire. You need to stay here and rest."

The scowling on his brother's face indicated exactly what he thought of that idea, but his wobbly legs betrayed him and he couldn't get much further than his hands and knees. He slid back to the ground in frustration, then squirmed until he was half slouched against the wall. It looked uncomfortable to Aramis, but he also knew, even sick, Athos felt vulnerable flat on his back.

"I'm just going to go check our masterpiece and maybe scout around, see if there is anything edible on this rock."

Another curt nod showed the musketeer had heard, though the scowl on his face still indicated that, even if he was resigned, he was displeased. However, the medic could tell by the half-hooded eyes, and the sweat on Athos' forehead, that he'd soon be dragged under again by his fever. Aramis vowed to himself to be quick, not wanting to leave his ill brother alone for long.

After placing his blanket on the ground near Athos, he doubted the heated man would stand to have it on him, Aramis stepped into the brisk winter morning. The sun was shining and the reflection off the snow was blinding to his eyes at first. Carefully, he made his way down to the river, scanning the banks and seeing no one. Little did he know, had he been five minutes earlier, he would have seen his brothers. But they had gone back onto the road to bring the horses upriver to where the leaning trees were located.

With a sigh, Aramis replenished the wood on the pyre, then headed back towards the interior of their little island to look for something edible in the woods. He found a few plants that he recognized, poking up through the snow. Gathering what he could, he decided he could make a soup like concoction, though without any meat it wouldn't be very nourishing. Still, it was better than nothing.

When he got back to the lean-to, as predicted, Athos was asleep, slumped over in an uncomfortable looking heap. Placing his finds near the fire, he went over and gently maneuvered the man into a more relaxed position. Brushing the sweaty hair off Athos' forehead, he worried about how high his temperature seemed and debated if he should try to lower it. But if it went in the opposite direction, and his core temperature dropped too low, Aramis wouldn't be able to warm him up given their current situation, and that would be even more dangerous. So, he settled for leaving him partially uncovered before setting off to make his soup.

-MMMM-

Having ridden up the road until they were even with the slanted trees, d'Artagnan and Porthos dismounted and led their horses down to the river's edge. Luckily, the trees were leaning downstream, so pulling on them would probably cause them to topple into the river.

"What about the ground, bein' frozen and all?" Porthos inquired as they looked over the trees from close up.

That had concerned d'Artagnan too. "It's a concern, but I think since so much of the root ball is already exposed, it should give way under the pressure."

Taking the rope off his saddle, he walked over to the first tilted tree. "We have to tie this really tight around the trunk. Can't afford to have it slide off." Running his hands over the bark, he found a knob where a branch once grew. He secured the rope above the knob so it wouldn't slide, though the roots would also be effective in keeping the rope from slipping off the tree. He should have thought of that all along, but surmised that the cold was slowing his thinking.

Porthos took his rope and did the same thing so both trees were ready to be toppled. They had already hacked some rope off the end of each coil, so they'd have something to lash the two trees together later to make the 'bridge' if their plan succeeded.

As a farmer, he knew how to rig a horse to pull an object and he used that knowledge to safely secure the rope to his horse. Mounting, d'Artagnan urged his horse to walk along the edge of the river, until the rope went taunt. Then he urged the animal to move forward some more, pulling on the tree. Porthos grabbed the rope between the horse and the tree and added his own considerable strength to the process. The tree stayed stubbornly still for a few minutes, with both Porthos and the horse grunting with the effort they were making. Gradually, it began to lean towards the river until it reached its pivot point and suddenly it picked up speed and fell into the river making a mighty splash. Both the horse and Porthos were surprised, but only the man ended up on his rump in the snow. D'Artagnan couldn't help laughing at the streetfighter's expression as he fell backwards into the rather deep snowbank. The sneaky snow must have found its way down his pants, for the streetfighter let out a rather high-pitched squeak and bounded to his feet.

At that point, the rope between the horse and the floating tree went slack, then began to tighten as the tree caught in the Seine's current and began to drift away. Luckily, the roots caught on the shallow edges of the river, and d'Artagnan, focusing back on the tree, was able to transfer the rope from his saddle to another tree for the moment, holding the floating tree in place while they worked on downing the next one.

The second one went a bit easier, since they knew what to expect this time. They used Porthos' Flip to pull this one into the river, though d'Artagnan rode him and Porthos still helped pull the tree down from the ground. The tree did its slow, slow, fast routine again, but Porthos was ready this time so he didn't end up with his posterior in the snow once more.

D'Artagnan rode over to another tree and hitched the second floating tree to the stationary one. However, before he could dismount, he suddenly felt someone tugging on his jacket, dragging him off the rear of the horse. Ungracefully, he slid off Flip's hairy rump, ending up in a pile in the snow on the ground. Like with Porthos, the stealthy snow made its way inside his clothes, touching his bare skin and making him yelp.

"Not so funny, is it," declared the grinning Porthos, who'd pulled him off the horse in retribution.

Picking himself up and brushing off the snow encrusting him, he finally chortled. "Fine. We're even." Turning serious, his eyes travelled down the ropes to the two fallen trees bobbing in the water.

"You gonna lash them together here, or down by the island?" Porthos inquired as he followed the younger musketeer's gaze.

Here, while they were still in the shallower water by the river's bank and tied to trees would be easier, but he had doubts they would float down the river that well without getting stuck on everything because of the increased length. Looking down the river once more, he realized he couldn't even see the little island, other than a plume of smoke in the air. That made up his mind. "Down by the island."

Porthos shook his curly head. "That's what I was thinking too. Gonna be hard enough to maneuver without tying them together too soon. Don't think the horses will be able to walk along the bank all the way to the island so we are going to have to tow the logs on foot."

"Not worried about towing, the current is in our favor. But stopping might be harder. What will we do with the horses?"

Porthos thought about it for a moment. "If Athos was here with Roger the wonder-horse, we'd simply tie the other horses to Roger and Athos would tell him to follow us up the river on the road."

"Would Roger do that?" d'Artagnan asked. "I mean I know Athos has him well trained, and I have seen the animal do some amazing things, but really."

With a shrug, Porthos started walking Flip over to a nearby tree. "I haven't ever seen that horse not do what he was told, so…" He looped the reins around a handy branch and gave his horse a slap on the neck. "We'll be back soon."

D'Artagnan did the same, then they headed for the trees the ropes were tied around.

"I think he is overcompensating," Porthos declared when they had reached the trees.

"Athos?"

"No. Roger. I think he is trying to prove he is not as dumb as his name sounds. Whoever heard of a horse named Roger?"

D'Artagnan knew this whole conversation wasn't about Roger's peculiar name, so he reached out and placed a hand on his brother's arm. "We'll find them."

Porthos was worried, though he gave d'Artagnan a tight nod, then untied the rope from around the trunk of the land based tree. "Let's see how this goes."

-MMMM-

Sounds carry on the water and Aramis, at least, heard the splash of the trees as they hit the river. However, he had no idea what to make of it. Athos, whose fever had subsided a little and who was sitting up trying to find ways to avoid eating Aramis' so-called soup, began to rise.

"Where are you going?" Aramis asked as the fevered musketeer shrugged off the blanket he was huddled under.

"Investigate."

Aramis gave him an incredulous stare.

"The sound."

"I know what you are saying, but do you think it is wise for you to go outside with a fever hot enough to fry an egg?" Aramis asked sarcastically, folding his arms across his chest.

Athos rarely listened to Aramis' medical advice when it was contrary to what he wanted to do and now wasn't any different. He didn't even bother to answer, just attempted to rise to his feet, which took him almost a minute to do and remain in a steady, non-swaying state.

The marksman just watched, never ceasing to be amazed at how stubborn all his brothers, including himself if he was to be honest, were when it came to their health and well-being.

Once he was more-or-less stable, Athos glanced down at the disapproving medic-musketeer and added, "I also have to answer the call of nature."

"By all means, go," Aramis said solemnly. "I'll wait here and come haul your ass out of the snow in a few minutes when you collapse. Do try to fall away from your, ah, call of nature."

One of Athos' trademark scowls covered his face as he turned to leave the campsite, got lightheaded, and nearly pitched into the fire. Only Aramis' quick leap to his feet and fast hands helped avoid a nasty accident.

As he stood there, holding his brother close to his chest, anger and fear overtook him and he wanted to shake some sense into Athos. It had been a miracle Aramis' cold body had responded in time to catch Athos before he pitched head first into the fire. Then the anger and fear was replaced by worry and love. "Damnit Athos," he whispered, his voice breaking.

"I'm sorry," came the low, sincere apology, which made Aramis love his brother even more and hug him protectively. Athos didn't apologize often; only when he realized how much he had scared his brothers.

"Let's go investigate that sound together." Aramis declared gruffly as he pushed Athos away, though he retained a steadying hand on his arm. "And let you take care of that call of nature. Don't worry, I shall advert my eyes."

"Wonderful," Athos grumbled as they headed out of the campsite.

After taking care of business, the two slowly made their way over to the shore and the signal fire, which was still burning strongly. They stood near it, basking in the heat, for it was still unbearably cold to be standing around doing nothing.

"Maybe we should build a snowman," Aramis said thoughtfully as he gazed across the river, then up and down its banks.

"Why?" the fever-ridden musketeer asked. He was too tired to try to think of a logical reason to make a snowman, if there even was such a thing. The short walk from the camp had exhausted his ill body and he wished now he'd stayed put and let Aramis investigate. They didn't see anything that might have made that rather loud, sharp, noise.

"If someone comes along and spots our fire, how will they know what it means and even more important where we are? The snowman could point the way. And," the medic added as an afterthought, "it will warm us up."

"I'm already warm enough," the fevered Athos mumbled.

"Must be past midday then," Aramis declared as he craned his neck back to see where the sun was in the sky. "Fevers rise towards evening." Scanning the river and the far bank once more, Aramis sighed, then turned away. "Let's get you back to camp. You still haven't finished your soup."

"Is that what that was?" Athos mumbled as he leaned heavily on Aramis' arm for support.

"As usual, your Comte's palette does not appreciate simple fare," Aramis retorted as they made their way back to camp, following the path of their previous footsteps.

"I don't think me being raised as a Comte has anything to do with the horrible taste of that soup."

"To each his own," Aramis declared as they rounded the natural windbreak of trees and rocks and entered their sheltered area. The fire was still going as Aramis helped Athos get settled in the pine bough lean-to. "Shall I warm your soup?" Aramis asked as he picked up the cold mug.

Athos nodded, thinking it would give him time to fall asleep first. He didn't think it would take him long for once and he was right as the fever took over his body once more and knocked him out. Aramis nestled the mug in-between two rocks in the fire pit where it would stay warm. They could resume the battle when Athos woke.

Settling back alongside his brother, he sipped at his own warmed soup and tried not to make a face. It did taste terrible, but at least his body was getting a little, if questionable, nourishment. When he finished the mug, he set it aside and stared outside. Actually, he realized, they didn't need a snowman to point the way to their campsite. The trampled snow would be clue enough. Now, they just needed someone to come and rescue them.


	19. Chapter 19

CHAPTER 19

In the end, they had to take the trees down the river, one by one, on the rope, for the weight of the trees, along with the strength of the current, was too much for one of them alone. D'Artagnan had been dragged unpleasantly through the snow-covered undergrowth when the tree he was holding broke free of the shallows, hit the deeper water where it could float freely, and then was grabbed by the current. The young musketeer let out a yelp as he was dragged off his feet by the runway tree.

Luckily, Porthos had not untied the second tree yet, so he ran after the young musketeer, who'd been jerked off his feet and was sliding through the snow. Grabbing the end of the rope, he added his considerable strength and stopped the tree from floating any further downstream, though it was not an easy task. D'Artagnan climbed back to his feet and between them, they guided the headstrong tree down river until it was across from the fire on the island. They secured it to a strong tree on the shore and snugged it as best they could against the river's bank. It was the best they could do for the moment. Then they trudged upstream and manhandled the second tree, tying it alongside the first. Finally, they walked back up one more time and retrieved their mounts, riding them back down the road to where the trees floated.

On the short ride back, they each devoured a piece of hard bread and an apple to keep up their strength. They were keeping warm from their exertions, but whenever they stood still, the air temperature and the wind reminded them how cold it really was outside.

Once back at the river's edge by the floating trees, they eyeballed the length of each trunk and decided, roped together, with a little overlap, they would reach the shore on the island. Both trees were tall and had decent sized trunks. They decided they would have to drag the two trees back up river a little bit, tie them together and then let them drift down the river again and hope the two ends wedged themselves, one end on the river bank and one end on the island. Otherwise, one of the musketeers, and it could only be d'Artagnan for Porthos wasn't a strong swimmer, would have to get in the river and try to guide the floating bridge.

The sun was well on its afternoon arc to the earth's horizon when they had the two trees squared off and they were ready to try. With a lot of careful maneuvering they dragged the tress slightly upstream and then using a long tree branch they found on the ground, they pushed the two trees, now tied together like a long pole, into the river's current. The path of least resistance came into play as the rushing water turned the tree bridge until it was parallel to the shore. In that position, it glided very smoothly down the river, but it wasn't going to wedge itself anywhere.

The two musketeers realized their error and sprinted down the river's bank though the undergrowth and snow trying to get ahead of the tree bridge so they could try to pull it to a stop and cause it to change trajectory. When they were alongside the island, and slightly ahead of the floating trees, the two musketeers stopped and hitched the end of the rope they had around a tree on the shore. The rope was tied to one end of the floating trees and when the line grew tight, that end of their tree bridge began swinging towards the shore. The current kept pushing the rest of the floating bridge in an arch that swung towards the island's shore. Eventually, the far end of the tree bridge, where the roots of the tree resided, brushed up against the shore and ground to a halt. It slid a few feet then resettled against some rocks on the shore of the island.

The two musketeers held their breath to see if their man-made bridge would slide any further, but it seemed fairly well wedged. When it appeared to be holding, Porthos snugged their end of the rope to the tree they had been using as a winch so this side of the bridge stayed in place. Taking the excess rope, he hacked it off with his main gauche to produce a new coil.

Without even asking, he handed it to d'Artagnan. Someone had to try to navigate their bridge and secure the far end so it didn't break away and start floating downstream again. D'Artagnan was the lightest and surest-footed, but most important, if he did fall in the river he might be able to swim to either shore and save himself. The best Porthos could do was float on his back and hope he was washed ashore. He'd been learning to swim under Athos' tutelage, but was still more or less in the extreme novice stage.

Without words, they moved to their end of the tree bridge and studied the massive trunk. All things considered, it was fairly wide to walk on and being an oak its bark it had some texture, which would help for stability. However, it was wet, for the river had soaked it and it was bobbing up and down. Crossing it was not going to be a walk in the park.

D'Artagnan took off his weapons, walked back over to his horse and hung them from his saddle. If he fell in he didn't need the extra weight. He debated about taking his main gauche, not wanting to be completely unarmed, but then decided against it, hoping there would be nothing more dangerous on the island than Aramis and Athos. As he moved back to the base of the bridge, the gnarled tangled root ball, Porthos grabbed him and gave him a big hug. Then, the big man released him and offered a steadying hand for d'Artagnan to use as he mounted the bridge.

Gratefully, the Gascon accepted the help while he found his balance on the trunk. Then, letting go of Porthos' gloved hand, he slowly made his way along the bridge. Near the shore, the trunk was fairly steady, but as he reached mid-river, the walkway bobbed more in the deeper water and current, making it much trickier to navigate. Small waves washed over the surface, which added to the challenge. When he got to the section where the two trees had been lashed together, he carefully navigated from one trunk to the other to continue his journey towards the island's shoreline. The trees were tied together near the top, with the root balls of the tree on either end.

A couple of times the young musketeer swayed dangerously and Porthos' breath caught in his throat until the lad moved forward again. The streetfighter felt so helpless standing and being able to do nothing to assist. Inaction was not his forte. When d'Artagnan finally made it across and onto the island, Porthos let out the breath he didn't realize he was holding. He watched as the capable musketeer snugged off the tree on the far end to keep it from floating away. Then he saw the lad scouting the ground before holding up the signal that said he found something. Shortly after that, the lad disappeared into the woods, leaving Porthos standing alone on the opposite shore, praying they'd found their missing brethren.

D'Artagnan looked at the boot prints in the snow near the bonfire. Definitely two distinct sets of foot prints, one of which he thought looked like Aramis' for they'd been teasing him about the distinct mark Aramis had carved in the heels of his boots when they had mistakenly been taken by another musketeer. There had been quite an argument and debate over whose boots were whose, and right after that, Aramis had taken his main gauche and carved what he claimed was a heart on the bottom of each boot heel. To his brothers, it looked like a lopsided triangle, but the romantically inclined musketeer assured them it was a heart, to represent his romantic nature.

One of the sets of snow prints had a strange squiggle on the heel and d'Artagnan's heart skipped a beat when he saw it. After signaling Porthos, he quickly followed the footprints into the woods. As he traversed the island, he thought he smelled smoke in front of him, not behind from the fire on the beach. Up ahead, he spotted an outcropping of rocks in the trees and from behind them he could see smoke rising. A small part of him called for caution, in case it was not his brothers, but he ignored it and barreled around the rocks.

Aramis, who'd been half-dosing, heard what he thought was footsteps crunching on the snow, but he wasn't sure if it was real or a left-over from his hopeful dream. When d'Artagnan came barging into the camp, he rubbed his eyes to make sure it wasn't a hallucination.

"D'Artagnan!"

"Aramis!"

The lad rushed around the fire towards the lean-to, as Aramis rose, unsteadily, to his feet. As they met and embraced, the Gascon could feel how cold and unsteady his fellow musketeer was on his feet.

Pushing back, Aramis studied the lad's face for a moment, before drawing him into an embrace once more. "You are a sight for sore eyes. How did you get here and where is Porthos?"

"On the other side of the river, anxiously waiting. We built a bridge."

"A bridge?" a voice from the floor of the shelter repeated.

D'Artagnan stepped around Aramis to look on the pine floor of the shelter. He'd almost been afraid to ask about his mentor, when he only saw Aramis at the fire, and he breathed a sigh of relief as he dropped to his knees beside Athos, who had struggled into a seated position. "Are you hurt?"

As usual, Athos ignored the question and asked again, "A bridge?"

D'Artagnan twisted his neck to look over at Aramis asking the silent question and getting a 'hurt, but still alive' body language answer. Turning back to Athos, and clasping his arm, he could feel the fever ravaging his brother's body. But he knew Athos would be annoyed by any more questions on his well-being, so he described the bridge as he sat back on his heels, telling the tale of how they built the structure.

"Let us head out and admire your new creation," Aramis suggested as he glanced at the low sun. He didn't want to spend another night out in the open, for he feared the worse for his sick brother. They needed to get to shore and find a real shelter, food and medicine.

Athos graciously allowed his protégé to help him stand, and then slowly, in deference to Athos' wobbly condition, they made their way to the shore to examine the bridge.

A huge joyful whoop cut the air when Porthos spied his three brothers on the far shore. They were alive! Now to get them to this side! Aramis waved to Porthos, though Athos simply raised his head to look across the river. Porthos didn't know if that was just the reserved nature of the man, or if it indicated something more serious.

"You walked over that?" Aramis said in what he hoped was a neutral tone. He had serious doubts he'd be able to do it, let alone Athos.

"It's not as bad as it looks." Though given Athos' condition, d'Artagnan wasn't so sure that was going to make any difference. The man was swaying on dryland. How could he balance on a bobbing log?

"If we had a knife, I could cut a length of rope off this end, and we could secure it between our waists. So, if anyone fell…"

"We'd all fall in? I'm not so sure that is a great plan, d'Artagnan," Aramis said doubtfully, his eyes straying back to the log.

"One at a time. I'll take you over. Help steady you if needed."

Aramis thought that might work for him, but he had doubts about Athos. However, it seemed like their only option so he nodded. "We need to extinguish the fire, well both fires."

"You wait here with Athos and I'll be right back," d'Artagnan declared before sprinting into the woods towards the camp.

While they had been talking, Athos had moved closer to the tree-bridge. Aramis moved to his side after the Gascon left to put out the campfire. The two stood, shoulder to shoulder, watching the trunk bob in the current.

"I won't be tied to anyone to cross that bridge," Athos stated in a flat tone that brooked no argument, even though Aramis tried.

"But Athos, you…"

Turning his fever-bright, green eyes on his brother, he reiterated, "I won't be tied to anyone. If I fall, I fall. I will not take anyone with me."

Aramis stared at his brother, understanding his rationale while hating it. "We'll find another way."

"You and d'Artagnan will cross first. I will follow."

"But…"

"I am your superior, and I have issued you an order, which you will follow," Athos snapped at the musketeer.

"You are an idiot who will get himself killed!" Aramis barked back.

"At least I won't kill anyone else with me," Athos declared, staring deep into Aramis' eyes before turning away. "Do not defy me."

Aramis reached over and placed a hand on Athos' shoulder. "There has to be a better way."

Raising his eyes towards the sun, Athos numbly stated, "Sunset is not far away and this will be suicide in the dark. This fever has left me unsteady and weak. This is the only way. I am willing to chance it."

"Well I'm not willing for you to chance it!" Aramis declared, his voice getting higher and louder at his stubborn brother.

"Chance what?" d'Artagnan asked as he came back to the shore. The time had passed quickly and the others had not even realized it.

"Athos wants you and me to go first, and then he will follow, on his own," Aramis declared with a bitter edge to his tone.

D'Artagnan stared at Aramis, fear in his eyes. "That doesn't sound like a very good plan."

"I won't have your lives risked for me!"

Aramis was afraid the fever was clouding the man's judgement. Surely Athos didn't think he could cross the trees on his own?

D'Artagnan was silent as he studied the tree bridge, the currents and the far shore. He had an idea that just might work. "I have an idea."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, but every now and then I write a cliffhanger.


	20. Chapter 20

CHAPTER 20

"Aramis, you and I will go across first. I can help steady you if need be. Once you are safely on the other side, I will come back for Athos…"

"I won't endanger you…" Athos broke in but d'Artagnan kept talking.

"Now I have seen you ride a horse in every condition, injured and even asleep. You have a natural instinct and seat. So, you will straddle the end of the tree, just past the roots, as if it were Roger. Then I will cut the rope securing it to the island, push off the end, and join you on our watery steed. The tree will hit the current and be dragged towards the middle of the river until it reaches the end of the rope on that side of the river." He pointed over to where Porthos stood, feeling helpless.

"I will take the rope tied to our end of the trees and toss it to Porthos on the bank. I believe, if we can get two-thirds of the way towards the bank, the rope will reach. Then, the mighty Porthos pulls us up against the shore and we disembark."

Aramis gave him a skeptical look as he listened. "You will both get wet, at least from the waist down."

"Better than totally wet by falling in," d'Artagnan quipped. "And Porthos and I both have a spare, dry, set of braies and pants in our saddlebag we can change into afterwards. Porthos' clothes will more than fit Athos."

"With some to spare," Athos muttered under his breath.

"And your boots?" Aramis asked. "They will get wet and I know you don't have a spare set of those. And I can tell you from experience that they take forever to dry."

The Gascon paused, not having thought of their boots. "Can we survive without them? Avoid frostbite?"

Aramis wasn't one hundred percent sure on the timing; he tried to judge it from his field experience in the winter. "Yes, for a short time. Maybe 30 minutes. As soon as you get ashore you'd have to dry off, put on the dry clothes and get warm."

"Then it's a plan."

"I'll go get the blankets from the campsite and Athos' dagger is still there. You can wrap up in the blankets until d'Artagnan comes back for you," Aramis said as he turned to go.

"No," Athos declared firmly.

Knowing that was not what Athos was protesting, but trying to distract him, Aramis said, "What? You want to get the blankets? Alright, but it will take you a long time and you will miss my balancing act on the tree."

"This is too risky. D'Artagnan will get wet and in this weather that is deadly. It's too dangerous. I'll go by myself."

At least Athos was acknowledging he was in no shape to balance on the log. But he also was in no shape to ride the tree by himself. D'Artagnan walked over to his mentor and stared him straight in the eye. "All for one and one for all. This is a good plan with acceptable risks. I'll not stand on the other shore and watch you die."

"It's settled then," Aramis declared. "Wait here with d'Artagnan. I'll be back in a flash. I want to get the blankets and the knife."

It took longer than Aramis would have liked to make the short trip to and from their campsite, but he could only get his cold, weary body to move so fast. He could have sent d'Artagnan, but he felt him keeping an eye on Athos was a better idea. He grabbed the two blankets, Athos' knife which he stuck in his waistband and said a last prayer of thanks for God to watch over whoever this campsite belonged to for it had saved his and Athos' life.

Once back on the island's shore, Aramis handed the blankets to Athos as he worriedly glanced at the fading light. "Fold it up and sit on one. Wrap the other around you, especially your feet since I'm taking your boots."

"Let me," d'Artagnan said as walked over to Aramis, grabbed one of the blankets and folded it into a nice pad.

D'Artagnan was about to drop it on the ground when Aramis yelled. "Wait." The marksman walked into the woods and came back a minute later with an armful of pine boughs. He arranged them on the ground and then motioned for d'Artagnan to place the folded-up cushion on top. "Insulation."

"Your throne awaits, oh Comte," Aramis declared with a flourish. "Please take your seat so your footman can remove your boots."

"Comte's do not have thrones," Athos groused, though he did carefully lower his body onto the blanket.

"But they do have footman." Aramis waved to d'Artagnan. "If you'd be so kind as to remove the Comte de la Fére's boots."

Athos' eyes flashed dangerously. "Servants make me…uncomfortable"

"Good, because I'm not a servant, even though you all treat me like one at times," d'Artagnan said as he wrapped his hands around Athos' right boot.

"New musketeer…" Aramis reminded him.

"Yeah, yeah I have heard that all before." With a tug, the boot slid off Athos' foot. D'Artagnan handed the footwear to Aramis and then worked on the left side. "Are you sure Captain Treville hasn't hired any other new musketeers since me. I think he must have. Why aren't you giving them your menial tasks."

The boot slid off with a pop and d'Artagnan handed it to Aramis who promptly gave them both back to the lad. "You have the, ah, honor, of carrying the Comte's boots." Even outside in the fresh air they were a little ripe.

Lifting the boots higher and giving them a shake, d'Artagnan declared, "Menial."

Suddenly, they realized Athos had dropped out of the witty exchange and they looked over at the man who was sitting, arms wrapped around his drawn-up knees and violently shivering. Aramis hurried over and wrapped the second blanket he'd been holding around the shivering man as tight as possible. "He's in the chilly phase of his fever. Great timing."

"Will he be alright here?" d'Artagnan asked Aramis, though Athos was the one who answered.

"Unless you plan to wait until morning, or do this in total darkness, you'd better get moving," Athos commanded in his take-no-prisoners Lieutenant's voice.

The other two musketeers realized he was right after they glanced at the sky.

"Ok, let's do this," d'Artagnan declared as he moved over to the tree and stepped up on its trunk.

Aramis patted Athos on the shoulder and slowly made his way over to the tree bridge. As he went to step up on it, with d'Artagnan's helping hand, he suddenly realized this wasn't going to be that easy. Maybe, he should ride the horse-log too, but he quickly banished that thought from his mind as there would not be enough dry clothes for all of them. It was important they stay dry and warm, for Aramis had no idea where the nearest shelter was on the other side of the river. As he took his first cautious step forward, he wondered it Porthos or d'Artagnan knew where to find shelter.


	21. Chapter 21

CHAPTER 21

D'Artagnan had made it appear a lot easier, but then again the Gascon hadn't spent the last 72 hours freezing and starving, not to mention the wild river ride. The marksman was as fleet of foot as the other musketeer, though one wouldn't think so to see him now. Had it not been for the lad's steadying hand, he would have tumbled into the river more than once.

By the time he reached the other side, he was sweaty and out of breath, but all those complaints were swept aside when Porthos gave him a huge bear hug before he barely had stepped off the tree bridge. The emotional streetfighter thumped him so hard Aramis nearly started to cough.

D'Artagnan cleared his throat to get Porthos' attention, then relayed the plan to him of how they would rescue Athos, who was still, amazingly, sitting where they left him. Porthos asked a few questions then nodded to show he understood. With that, d'Artagnan stripped off his boots and handed them to Porthos before starting back across his make-shift bridge. About half way across, he was feeling cocky and congratulating himself on how easy it was becoming to make this crossing, even in his stocking feet, which, admittedly, were getting a bit nippy. That little lapse in concentration was all it took for him to shift his weight wrong and, suddenly, he was wind-milling his arms to keep from plunging into the river.

Once on the opposite shore, he stopped by Athos first, making sure the man was still with them. Hooded green eyes tracked him and a slight nod told him all he needed to know. Moving to the tree, whose roots were on the shore and tied to another tree, he studied it. It was going to take a little effort on their part to shift the end of the tree into the river; simply untying the rope was not going to work.

Undoing the end of the rope tied to the upright tree on the shore, the ex-farmer coiled it carefully so when it came time to toss it to Porthos, it would feed out smoothly. Next, he grabbed a stout root and tugged to see how easily the tree would drag. In a second, Athos was at his side, helping. They decided it wasn't going to be too hard get the tree floating.

Stepping back, d'Artagnan let go of his root. "Looks like our water-horse is ready to go. Are you?"

The fever-glazed eyes seemed to indicate otherwise, but Athos barked out, "Yes."

"Ok. Grab the blankets. We can fold them shorter and drape them over our shoulders above the water level."

"Fire," Athos said succinctly.

"Right." D'Artagnan went over and doused the signal fire that had saved their lives. "Clever idea."

Athos didn't say a thing as he moved away towards the tree bridge in the river. No matter what, this was a risky operation. They would get wet, a killer in this weather. They could slide off the log and he knew he didn't have the strength to survive another trip down the river. The rope might not be long enough to reach the other shore and trying to maneuver the log into the current was going to be tricky. Glancing back over his shoulder at his protégé, who had finally snuffed out the fire, he almost smiled. The lad was using his head, not his heart, to get out of a desperate situation. It was encouraging.

It wasn't long before d'Artagnan joined him and Athos handed over a blanket, which he had folded to make smaller so as to only drape over the shoulders.

"Let's push this a little further into the river then mount up. You have point."

Each musketeer grabbed a substantial root and tugged the end close to the shallows. As they knew they were going to get wet, most likely from the entire waist downward, they gritted their teeth and stepped into the river to continue to drag their side of the tree bridge.

Intense pain ripped through their feet, ankles and calves; it was excruciating, then suddenly it was over and their limbs went numb. That was even worse because the lack of sensation made it hard to know exactly what was going on. It was like having blocks of ice attached to their lower extremities that had no flexibility.

They felt the tree trunk begin to float and knew that was their cue to mount. It wasn't easy to get on the log with their unresponsive feet, but between a bit of pushing and pulling, they got themselves securely seated on the trunk. As d'Artagnan knew would happen, Athos instinctively clamped his thighs to the sides of the cylinder-shaped trunk as if it were a horse.

Just before he scrambled onboard, d'Artagnan gave the tree one last mighty push to get it into the river proper. He felt the current starting to take a hold of the object as it swung out into the river. Once on the log, he shimmied up the trunk until he was right behind Athos, able to reach out and steady the man if required.

Athos felt d'Artagnan behind him, so he called over his shoulder, "When the line tied to this trunk goes taunt, there will be a jerk."

Conceptually, they understood what would happen, but when it did they came close to falling off. The tree not only stopped its journey down river, but it began to twist and buck under them, almost as if it were a real horse, trying to break free of its restraints. As d'Artagnan grabbed Athos' weapons belt around his waist to stabilize him, both of their blankets slid off into the frothy white water. They started to slide sideways until their left thigh was in the river. In desperation, Athos reached forward to a limb on the trunk and used it to halt their descent. His ribs and burnt arm screamed in protest, but he was determined neither of them would fall into the water.

On the other river bank, Porthos and Aramis had built a fire as their two brothers prepared on the island for their wet and wild ride. They laid the extra clothes out near the fire, to warm up as much as possible. They knew when the men reached this shore, it would be important to get them out of the wet clothes and into dry ones quickly in order to preserve body heat.

After they had prepared everything, they moved back to the river's edge to watch. Porthos draped his arm over Aramis' shoulder for companionship, warmth and comfort. As the tree drifted out into the river, they held their breath until both men were seated. When the log bucked and swung, nearly unseating their brothers, they rushed closer to the edge, as if to jump in and save them should the worse happen.

"Athos won't survive another dunking in the river and the cold," Aramis worriedly stated. "Do you have any medical supplies with you?"

"Just what you normally make us carry."

Aramis went over those items in his head. A few months ago he had made them each a medical pack and made sure they all knew how to use what was in it. There would be willow bark, which would be good for the fever. He hurried away for a moment, rummaged in Porthos' bags, found the supplies and set a small pot of snow and herbs on the fire to infuse, then rejoined Porthos at the river's edge.

"I think it is about time for d'Artagnan to toss the rope. The trees have been carried past the midpoint, I don't know how much more they will travel towards us," Porthos declared as he studied the situation.

The two musketeers on the trees were coming to the same conclusion, and they wanted off this watery transport. The killing cold from their lower legs was seeping into the rest of their bodies. More than once, d'Artagnan swore he felt Athos swaying ever so slightly. He couldn't afford to have his mentor pass out.

Putting his lips next to Athos' ear, he said, "I think it is time to try tossing the rope to Porthos." A quick nod told d'Artagnan Athos concurred.

Taking the coil of rope off his shoulder where he had carried it, the young musketeer sighted along the river bank getting ready to make his toss. Porthos moved as close to the edge of the water as possible, readying to catch. The lad's first attempt fell a good distance short of its mark, and he had to haul the wet rope to him to try again. After the third attempt, all falling miserably short, d'Artagnan recoiled the rope once more, then paused.

Frustrated, he declared, "This isn't working."

Athos who, though he appeared in a stupor, had been thinking through the issue. "Position. And weight."

"I need to stand up, is what you are saying?"

"Unfortunately."

"And weight?" d'Artagnan inquired, not quite following the second concept.

"On the end. Of the rope. Will make it easier to toss."

"Wish you had that idea before we left on this raft ride," the ex-farmer said ruefully as he glanced around them.

Athos glanced at the tree limb he'd been hanging on to for support. No way they were going to hack that off. Had they been wearing boots, one of them would have made a good weight. In the end, his eyes came to rest on his weapon's belt. He'd tossed aside his rapier and Aramis still had his main gauche and flint, so the belt was mostly empty. It would work.

"My belt," Athos said as he struggled to remove it.

"But that is what I was using to hold onto you."

D'Artagnan couldn't see his brother's face, but he could hear the exasperation in his voice "If we don't get to shore soon, we will succumb to this freezing water. I can hold on to a damn log without you coddling me like a child on his first pony."

A grin spilt d'Artagnan's face when he heard a touch of feistiness in his brother's voice. They would need that to fight and survive. "Maybe we should use my belt instead."

Athos twisted his head around to peer at his friend. "I plan to hang on to that to help support you, while you stand on this tree. Unless," he paused a beat, "you'd rather I stand and toss the rope."

That, the Gascon already knew, would be a recipe for disaster. Athos couldn't stand on dry land. How the hell would he balance on this bouncing, bobbing log? "Your belt. You sit. I stand and throw." The Gascon was surprised to see Athos start to swing a leg over the log. "What are you doing? I said I would do to."

"Holding you," Athos grunted as the moved from straddling the tree to sitting side-saddle. D'Artagnan helped steady him as he proceeded to swing his other leg over the trunk until he was once more straddling it, now facing d'Artagnan.

Aramis and Porthos had been watching their brothers from the shoreline, wondering what they had been conversing about. They gasped when they saw Athos changing position. When they saw Athos taking off his belt and d'Artagnan tying it to the rope, they got one part of the idea. When they saw d'Artagnan start to rise to his feet, they gave another collective gasp.

"What is he doing?" Porthos exclaimed as the lad wobbled to his feet.

"Leverage. Or rather height. Be ready, I think he's only got one toss in him," Aramis said sagely as they moved closer to the edge.

Moving slowly, d'Artagnan brought his numb feet up onto the tree's trunk. Then, using Athos' shoulder for support, he got one, then the other, foot under him until he was crouching on the log. He gripped Athos' shoulder tightly to keep situated, and in turn Athos gripped the trunk with his legs.

"Here we go," d'Artagnan declared as he lurched upright.

The tree bobbed in the water and the lad was forced to windmill his arms to keep balanced. When he did, he smacked Athos in the cheek with the belt, causing a welt that Athos' numb face didn't even register. It was a wild few moments before everything settled down, as much as it was going to. D'Artagnan was standing on the log and Athos was doing his best to help steady the lad holding on to his legs.

Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, D'Artagnan lined up his shot, then began to twirl the weapons belt over his head like a lasso.

"Smart," Porthos said with admiration.

A few moments later, on the high side of the arc, he flung his arm towards the shore and let go. The weapons belt flew through the air with surprising precision. Porthos only had to move a little to capture the belt and attached rope. When it was in his hands he let out a mighty whoop.

However, fate still had a cruel twist to throw at the four musketeers. Try as he might, d'Artagnan overbalanced and no amount of footwork on his part could save him from falling. Athos desperately tried to get a better hold on the falling man, and did manage to latch onto his belt. But the falling weight of the man was too much, he lost his grip on the log and they both toppled over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh yes, as my beta reminded me, this was the real cliffy. Are you shivering with cold, anticipation or dread?


	22. Chapter 22

CHAPTER 22

"Christ!" Porthos screamed when he saw his two brothers start to topple off the tree. Aramis was praying in a more traditional manner.

"Can you see them?" Aramis exclaimed, as he ran up and down a short section of the shore to get a better view.

The medic was just about to send caution to the wind and wade into the river when he heard Porthos shout. "I see them!"

D'Artagnan managed to half-fall with his one arm still wrapped over the trunk of the tree, which he clung to for dear life. When Athos felt himself toppling over, he lunged for the limb that he'd been holding onto earlier, as well as d'Artagnan's weapons belt. With a hand on each, his lower body slid into the frigid waters, but his torso remained somewhat dry, slung over the tree.

"Haul them in." Aramis shouted when he saw the rope in Porthos' hands, yet the man was doing nothing.

"Not until I know they have a secure hold on that damn tree!" It was hard in the dusk to see what was going on. "Athos! D'Artagnan!" Porthos bellowed.

"We're good!" d'Artagnan yelled back, though all of his brothers could hear the edge of pain in his voice. "We're secure. Pull us in."

And pull Porthos did, with every bit of strength he possessed, and the two, massive trees slid to the shore in an instant. Once they felt the river's bottom under their feet, Athos and d'Artagnan tried to stand. It was only by leaning on each other that they were able to stumble up the snowy bank of the shore. Once they reached the top, Athos stumbled to his knees, dragging the Gascon down with him into the snow.

"Oh God no," Aramis moaned as he slid across the snow to Athos' side and saw the blood on his face.

He and Porthos leveraged both men to their feet and hauled them over to the fire where they gently placed them on the waiting bedrolls they had laid out. Knowing both men would need a lot of assistance to change into the dry clothes, they wrapped d'Artagnan up well a blanket while they tackled Athos.

D'Artagnan was alert and fairly responsive and Aramis wanted to keep him talking. "What happened?" Aramis asked, pointing the bleeding welt on Athos' left cheek.

"Weapons belt clipped him, I think. Is he going to be fine?" d'Artagnan asked the medic, worry and concern coloring his tone. Athos seemed totally unresponsive to the lad, not objecting at all as Aramis and Porthos manhandled him out of one set of clothes and into dry ones. The swordsman was not one to allow his personal space to be violated often, not even by his closest friends.

"I am sure, if you were to ask him, he'd tell you he is fine," Aramis joked as he buttoned Athos' doublet over Porthos' overly large braies, shirt and pants. Unexpectedly, the green eyes gained focus and rotated to stare at him.

"I am fine. Stop fussing over me." He actually tried to raise his hands to swat Aramis' away, but he was too exhausted to do more than raise them a few inches before letting them fall back into his lap. So instead, he glowered at the man.

Aramis could feel the fever heat radiating off of Athos, along with the periodic bouts of painful shivering. "Oh yes. You're definitely 'fine', Athos."

He wasn't sure if Athos chose not to reply, or simply couldn't, but the swordsman closed his eyes and remained mute. After snuggling the silent man up in the blanket, he and Porthos turned their attentions to d'Artagnan, who was easier as the lad seemed to be recovering more quickly. Given he hadn't been out in the cold as long as Aramis and Athos, it wasn't surprising.

Porthos was more concerned about Aramis, who was slowing down and it could be easily seen he was on the brink of collapsing himself. Once both the river-dunked men were redressed, wrapped in the robes the monks gave them and settled by the fire, Porthos made Aramis join them while he laid out a little spread for them to eat from what the monks had placed in his and the Gascon's saddlebags. The hungry lad lit into the food with gusto and Aramis did fair justice to it himself; food, even though not warm, was delicious. Athos drank Aramis' willow bark tea with minimal fuss, but only half-heartedly chewed on the meat and cheese roll Porthos had placed in his hands.

"Where is the nearest shelter?" Aramis asked Porthos softly, as they sat side by side sharing a blanket and eating.

"Don't know exactly. We was too busy looking for you to think of shelter," Porthos said sheepishly.

"There are no places between here and the Abbey; least not of which I'm aware," d'Artagnan chimed in.

"You're right on that. The Abbey itself is rather remote, even though it is on the Seine. But no villages nearby," Porthos confirmed, as he munched on an apple.

Letting his eyes slide over to Athos, Aramis declared, "Paris is too far with him sporting that fever. And I don't think I can make it that far either if the truth be told."

"You've been through a lot. No shame." Porthos went quiet as he thought for a few moments. "It's a six hour ride to the Abbey. Less if we push it. Can we wait until dawn to leave? Light would allow us to travel faster."

"I don't think he, or I, can survive another night in this cold," Aramis answered truthfully.

"Right then. We pack up and leave now. Ain't like we haven't ridden in the dark before. And the moon, on the new fallen snow, will give us more light," Porthos declared as he rose. "Stay wrapped up until I get the horses ready." Aramis was grateful to comply.

It didn't take long for Porthos to get everything ready and a rejuvenated d'Artagnan helped him. When it came time to get their two brothers up, they had a quick consultation.

"Athos with me?" d'Artagnan asked, as he glanced over to the man, who hadn't moved in the last fifteen minutes.

"Thinking with me," Porthos replied slowly, as he too looked at the comatose man. "I think he is gonna be close to a dead weight." D'Artagnan cringed at the unfortunate choice of words. "Sorry. It's just, I'm stronger and…"

D'Artagnan held a hand up to ward off Porthos' apology. "I get it. Let's mount up. We have a long ride ahead of us."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Five more chapters/epilogue. And thanks for all the reviews, which are fun to read.


	23. Chapter 23

CHAPTER 23

Nature wasn't on their side as shortly after midnight it began to snow again, large wet flakes falling from the dark skies to land on the moving men and horses. It made what was already going to be a long journey longer and more dangerous. As the snow accumulated on the track, the two horses, already weary and overburdened, slowed down even more due to the deteriorating conditions.

For the horses' sakes, they took a few short breaks, each time building a fire to keep warm. Aramis, riding tandem with d'Artagnan had slumped more than once during the long trek, the lad being forced to hold tight to ensure the musketeer stayed in the saddle. They had argued over who was going to ride in the front and who in the rear, but d'Artagnan had insisted and Aramis acquiesced. The first time he felt the marksman drifting off, he was glad he had insisted. The war saddles were roomy just for occasions such as this, where survival meant two on a horse, though it was still easiest to have the injured man in the front, where one could see him.

There had been no debate on the riding order of Porthos and Athos. The streetfighter had all but tossed the lighter man into the saddle before climbing up behind him and locking his powerful arms around him. Athos hadn't objected, though he hadn't done much of anything since they pulled him from the river, his fever robbing him of his senses. Porthos could feel the heat of the fever through Athos' leathers and as Aramis had discovered earlier, it was not a bad way to keep a little warmer. But he worried that Athos, as the trip grew longer, was less and less responsive. At the last stop, Porthos had basically carried him from the horse to the ground, where he sat in a heap, and then back to the horse. The only thing the streetfighter was grateful for was what d'Artagnan had noted earlier; no matter what condition he was in Athos seemed to have a knack for staying in the saddle.

The snow eventually drifted off to a lazy stop and the pink glow of dawn once more found d'Artagnan studying the cock-topped spire of the Abbey, wishing they were closer. When they finally rode through the Abbey's arched gate, morning prayer was over and, surprisingly, the courtyard was filled with many brothers passing through, carrying baskets to the stable area.

As they came through the gates, heads turned in their direction, though no one stopped to greet them. For a moment, the two horses and the four men simply stood, exhausted, in the courtyard, happy to have reached this destination with everyone still alive. Porthos dismounted first, leaving Athos in the saddle, but placing a steadying hand on the man's thigh.

Suddenly, like last time, a now familiar robed man glided across the courtyard towards them.

"You're back. And on Christmas Eve," the Abbott said, rather strangely if anyone had been sharp enough to listen closely. Almost as if he shook himself out of some sort of trance, Abbott Dubois, added in a warmer tone, "You have found your missing friends. The Lord does answer our prayers."

Aramis and d'Artagnan had slid from their horse to the ground, leading it over to stand by Porthos' shoulder.

"D'Artagnan. Good to see you again. And you I presume are Aramis," the Abbott stated with the utmost confidence.

"I am, but how did you…" the confused man asked, sure he'd never met the Abbott before.

"Your friends mentioned your names last time they were our guests. And that must be Athos," he said, as he turned his eyes to the slumping man on the horse. "He doesn't look well at all."

Porthos and Aramis were surprised the Abbott was able to identify their brothers for they didn't recall them talking that much about them on the last visit.

At that moment, another brother slid next to the Abbott and whispered something softly in his ear. Abbott DuBois' eyes slid over to the stable and then back, almost as if there was something going on in there he didn't wish shared with the four musketeers. He gave a curt nod to his brother who glided away.

The Abbott caught Porthos staring at the gliding man and reminded him, "Classes." Aramis curiously glanced over at Porthos, but the big man ignored him.

"Let's get your brother off that horse and in some place safe and warm," the Abbott said, suddenly bustling them about as if they'd overstayed their welcome in the courtyard. "Surely, you must be tired of seeing all this snow."

Porthos lifted Athos down from the horse and could tell the man was in no condition to walk. So, he simply slung him over his shoulder. "Lead on."

It was a testament to how lost in fever Athos was that he didn't even seemed to know he was being carried like a sack of grain over Porthos' shoulder. The Abbott led the musketeers deeper than before into the inner sanctums of the Abbey. To a room with a large fireplace, four beds, a couple of tables, chairs and even a few rather comfy-looking overstuffed chairs flanking the fireplace. The oddest thing about the room was there wasn't a single window, though a good number of candles, which, once lit, gave the room a warm glow. The mantle was decorated with greens, holly with cheerful red berries, and scented pinecones.

"I see the brothers have been busy in here. We use this as…ah… guest quarters. For visiting brethren from other Monasteries," he tacked on, lest it seem like the Abbey was an inn.

"You are pretty far removed here," Aramis said conversationally as he took in the room. "I can't imagine you get many visitors."

"Given the nature of our work, we find it useful to be off the beaten path as they say." The Abbott paused again as if he was considering what he had just said. "Being in the business of prayer, of course, and worshipping our Lord that is. It is useful to be isolated. Not have people barging in at awkward times."

Aramis was wondering what an 'awkward' time was for a monk, but before he could inquire, the Abbott went on. "Of course, the King's musketeers coming here are always welcome. You play an important role for King and Country. While we look after the country's spiritual needs, you look after her physical needs." The Abbott paused again, as if he had made a faux pas, before adding, "By being soldiers and fighting and all.

Porthos, who had laid Athos down on one of the beds upon entering the room, joined the group. "Abbott, could we impose on you for food…"

"And medical supplies…if you have any to spare," Aramis hastily added.

"But of course. I will send Brother Francis to consult with you. He knows best what is in our infirmary."

"I could just go there, to the infirmary, and not put Brother Francis out," Aramis stated politely. "I can manage a few more yards."

The Abbott seemed to get flustered at that suggestion. "Oh no. That would not be suitable to have you running about the Abbey, I mean in your weakened state. That would not be good at all. Brother Francis will be more than happy to consult with you here and bring what you need. The infirmary is so far away. Yes, that would not do at all."

Once again, another brother mysteriously floated to the Abbott's side. Strangely, he seemed to have sawdust covering the lower half of his robe. The Abbott looked at the unseemly robe and then over at the three standing musketeers. "Brother Tomas. He saws wood, for the fires of the Abbey. Obviously, he has just sawn fresh logs for your fire." Brother Tomas nodded his head as if to agree with the statement, though he remained otherwise silent.

"Our good brother will bring them in and stack them in the rack, in case you need them later."

Porthos took a step forward. "Let me help carry the wood. I carried him. I can carry anything."

"Yes, oh well, that is very kind of you, but a musketeer carrying wood? What would the King think of his musketeers doing such…tasks."

"You have no idea what we have done by the command of the King," d'Artagnan piped up. "Carrying firewood is nothing. Trust me."

"No, no. You shouldn't be running around anymore than Aramis. Please, sit, get warm and I will send Brother Francis with medical supplies; Brother Tomas will bring the wood and I shall stop by the kitchen and have Brother Jacques send up food."

Aramis was puzzled, trying to figure out if the Abbott was deliberately confining them to this room, which didn't make sense. "I'm sure, with it being Christmas Eve, you and the brothers are very busy preparing and don't need a bunch of musketeers underfoot."

"Oh yes indeed. We are quite busy preparing. Of course, it is a simple celebration. We spend the night in the main chapel, secluded, praying. I mean if you were walking about you'd almost think the Abbey deserted. But of course, we are all in the chapel, praying, which is exhausting work. On Christmas, we all return, from the chapel that is, and meet in the refectory for a huge feast. Every brother comes and our own Brother Jacques out-does himself. You will join us of course, after your night's rest. Which I am sure will be peaceful inside these walls. Now let me be off."

With that, the Abbott glided out the door with Brother Tomas right behind, pulling the door tightly shut.

"Was the Abbott that…odd…last time?" Aramis questioned, as he moved across the room to Athos' side.

Porthos and d'Artagnan trailed after Aramis. "I don't know. All religious men are a bit odd if you ask me. Standing around praying all day. What kind of life is that?" Porthos said as he flopped on the bed to the right of the one Athos was lying on.

"Sounds rather peaceful to me," the medic-musketeer said as he loosened Athos' doublet after placing a hand to the man's forehead. "Still hot."

D'Artagnan, who had moved over by the fireplace and was fingering the greenery asked, "Did it seem to anyone else that the good Abbott doesn't want us wandering around his Abbey."

"I admit he seemed a bit…strange…but it is Christmas Eve. They probably have very sacred ceremonies and they simply want to focus on the holiness of this night. This is probably not a night they like to have guests," Aramis surmised, as he helped a groggy Athos out of his jacket. The room was warm as was the man.

Before anything more could be said, there came a polite knock on the door and a flurry of activity took place. Brother Tomas, still covered in sawdust, came in with armfuls after armfuls of wood, enough for a week it seemed to Porthos, who insisted on helping him move it from the cart in the hallway over to the log carrier by the fireplace.

D'Artagnan's attention was taken up by the second cart, which a brother, whom they hadn't met yet, wheeled into the room and over to the table. The brother laid out a huge quantity of simple, but hearty fair, enough for ten people. To the food he added bottles of wine and ale. A few sweet confections found their way onto the table. "I took some of these from tomorrow's fare. I thought, after all you have been through, you might appreciate them. Don't worry, there are plenty more," he said when d'Artagnan began to protest that they didn't want anyone deprived because of them.

The last person to come into the room, sans a cart but with two baskets in his hands was Brother Francis. He set them on one of the empty beds and Aramis eagerly dug through them. "You seem to have a wonderfully stocked infirmary," Aramis said distractedly as he dug through the baskets, removing what he thought he'd need.

"Yes. Well we get a surprising number of injuries in our small community. People not careful with tools and the like."

"I didn't know monks used tools? I thought the main tool was prayer," Aramis quipped as he laid out the supplies.

"Of course, but we are a working Abbey. We make our own wine, build things, grow things. Injuries happen."

Aramis gathered what he needed then began to produce a potion to help reduce Athos' fever while the brother watched. "Be sure to allow your friend to wash that down with a nice glass of our wine. It's going to taste horrible," he declared as he watched what the medic-musketeer was grinding together.

"Listen to the good brother," a weak voice from the bed called out.

Aramis turned and saw Athos had managed to sit up on the bed. "Since when do you ever follow religious advice?" he gently teased.

"When it involves drinking wine," Athos stated flatly.

Soon enough, the room was empty except for the four musketeers.

"Anyone feel the need to see if the door is locked from the outside," d'Artagnan joked, though there was a slight truth to the jest.

"It's warm. There is lots of food and wine. A fire. Beds. If the brothers don't want us messing about with their ceremonies, I'm good with that," Porthos cheerfully declared as he sat at the table and began to make inroads into the food.

Aramis, who'd finished the tincture and was leaving it to steep, joined Porthos and d'Artagnan at the table. "Will you need help to the table, Athos? I'm sure Porthos wouldn't mind carrying you once more, considering he carried you over his shoulder all the way here."

"Is there going to be wine in my glass if I come to the table," Athos demanded after giving Aramis the evil eye.

Aramis lifted the lid from a pot on the table and the smells of a wonderful stew flooded the room. "Same rules as always," he said as he ladled some into a bowl and set it by the empty chair. "Food, medicine, wine, in that order."

Athos attempted to rise from the bed, but couldn't make it as a wave of dizziness overcame him. Before he even sank back onto the bed, Aramis was at his side. "If we are relegated to this room for the night, you, my friend, are confined to this bed. After you eat and take the medicine, I will put some salve on your burn and bruises...everyone's bruises," he added, including the others. "I know we have all been beaten and battered these last few days, but it so happens that Brother Francis has my favorite salve already made."

"The one that smells," d'Artagnan mouthed around his food.

"Of mint, yes. Very festive," Aramis confirmed, before turning his attentions back to Athos. "Let's prop you up here with some pillows, and I shall bring you some food."

"And wine," Athos reminded him. "I have a fever. You said liquids are good for fever if I recall."

"Yes, they are," Aramis agreed as he took two pillows from the other beds and helped Athos position himself in a more upright manner. "But I meant water, not wine."

Athos only managed a quarter of the bowl of stew, and turned down all other offers, including the sweetmeats Porthos brought over from the table. He downed the tincture with minimal fuss, but only managed a few mouthfuls of wine before he started to drift off. Aramis took the cup away and helped position him comfortably on the bed.

Once Athos was settled, Aramis took the time to check the burn on his arm and rub salve on it and his bruises. Then Aramis went back to the table and ate his fill, before the three of them retired with the wine, and sweets, in front of the fire. One after the other, they dropped off into a deep sleep, one that would keep them in their room until the morning's light.


	24. Chapter 24

CHAPTER 24

Athos' fever grew as the evening wore on, but his brothers were unaware of it, caught up in their own drug-induced slumber. The Abbott felt bad about drugging the musketeers, but he simply couldn't chance them moving about the Abbey tonight and discovering their secret. This Abbey had a long tradition and he'd be darned if he was going to be the one that brought it tumbling down.

Athos woke, drenched in sweat and confused. He hadn't consumed the same amount of food and drink as his brothers and between that and his fevered metabolism, he had burned off the drug's effects.

Pinon. He had to get to Pinon. He had his duty. He may have totally disgraced himself and his family in many ways, at least in his mind, but he wouldn't let that affect his commitment to Pinon. The gifts had to appear, from Père Noël, at the inn, to be distributed to the children. Toys, hats and mittens, nuts and sweetmeats.

Groaning, he leveraged himself upwards and then slowly swung his feet off the edge of the bed. The chilly air in the room helped revive him to a degree. After resting in that position for a few minutes to gather his strength, he lurched upwards. He stumbled over to the table, gripping its edges for support. Glancing towards the empty beds, he figured he was alone. He didn't notice his three friends sprawled in the cushioned chairs, sound asleep in front of the dying fire.

Shifting his eyes to the items on the table, he saw a bottle of wine, but alas, it was empty. Still, he picked it up and shook it, just in case his eyes were deceiving him. However, the only thing in the glass container was air.

Sighing and unsatisfied, he headed for the door of their chamber, his footsteps getting surer as he walked, and the brisk night air helped make him feel cooler. Turning the handle, he opened the door and for a moment felt surprise when it did open, though he had no idea why that random thought wandered through his brain. He stood in the doorway for a moment trying to determine which way to go. The hall looked long and deserted in both directions and he had no clue how to get to the stables, so he simply went left.

The hallway was dark and empty, no windows, and only a few nearly burnt down candle stubs to provide feeble illumination. Considering his condition, he moved at a fairly good pace, though occasionally he reached out a steadying hand to the cold, stone wall. When he came to the occasional door, he opened it to see where it led, but he found nothing that suggested a way to the stable.

An arched opening appeared on his right and he discovered as he drew near it was a staircase, leading downward. Downward? Was it going to a cellar or the ground floor? Was he on the second floor? He had no clue. After a brief hesitation, he started down the winding staircase. At the bottom, he could only go straight, so he did.

Far down at the end of the hallway, he saw pools of light spilling across the darkened floor. Maybe there was someone who could direct him to the stables. With renewed vigor, he picked up his pace, moving from a slow shuffle to a fast one. When he got to the pools of light, he could see they were coming out of two rooms, one on either side of the corridor, which had open doors. Sticking his head in the first room, he saw a series of workbenches, lined with wood working tools, but otherwise, the table tops were empty. On the floor were bulging sacks and from the top of the one nearest him, what appeared to be a toy soldier was spilling out.

The room was silent, even though there were quite a few monks in it, moving sacks about and stuffing items in them from shelves lining the walls. They all stopped what they were doing when he walked in the room and mutely stared at him, making him extremely uncomfortable. While he didn't exactly feel threatened, he certainly felt intensely unwelcome and he quickly backed out of that room, turned and tried the one on the other side.

It too was filled with monks and sacks, but instead of wooden benches of wood working tools there were tables, with the remnants of baking ingredients. Again, all the monks halted what they were doing and stared at him. A stray walnut caught his eye as it lay on the floor. His mind simply couldn't fathom what was going on. So once again, he backed into the hallway and this time he kept heading down it towards the end of the corridor, where there was another closed door. On the way he passed a third open door, though given his reception at the last two, he didn't stop. But he did glance in as he went by and thought it looked a lot like Constance's sewing room. At the very end of the hallway was the closed door, though this one was much wider than the others.

With trepidation, he pulled it open and was assaulted with the familiar scent of hay and horses. Finally, he had found the stable. Now to find Roger. There were no monks in the stable, nor, as it turned out were there any horses. Athos traversed the entire length of the structure, peering into empty stall, after empty stall. He saw evidence there had been horses in the past, but not the present. When he came to the very end stall, there stood a grey donkey, with long floppy ears and a black stripe down its back and another over its shoulders. It was standing in the stall, with the door open, and it raised its head to stare at him when he appeared.

Athos blinked at the animal for a few confused moments before blurting out, "You're not Roger."

The solemn, brown-eyed beast looked at him and, for a fleeting moment, he thought he saw amusement in the animal's eyes.

"How the hell am I going to get to Pinon without Roger? Or any horse for that matter," Athos exclaimed as he flung his arms in a wide arc. His eyes roamed the stable once more to see if he'd missed a horse hidden somewhere.

"Typically, that language is not used here."

"Sorry," Athos said without really thinking, before it hit him. Who'd said that? He glanced around again expecting to see one of the monks who must have walked in without his notice. But the stable remained deserted except for him and the grey donkey, placidly staring at him.

His eyes narrowed as he glared at the animal, too small for his use. Muttering under his breath, he turned away and walked out of the stall. Slowly, he began moving down the length of the stables once more, convinced Roger, or some horse, simply had to be here and he'd somehow overlooked them.

As he shuffled down the aisle, his grey companion followed along like an overgrown, obedient, faithful dog. When he reached the end with the same results as last time, no Roger, no horses, he turned and walked once more to the far end. No magic made any horses appear and he groaned and sank down on a rectangular hay bale outside the last empty stall. His eyes did a final sweep up straw-scattered, dirt aisle between empty stalls.

"Empty," he moaned, sitting on the prickly hay bale. "Where's Roger?"

His grey ghost was standing beside him. "Who's Roger?"

Without thinking to whom he was talking, Athos replied, "My horse." When he remembered he was supposedly alone, he rose to his feet and strode into the center of the aisle. His hand strayed to his sword, only to find it wasn't at his side. "I'm not in the mood for games. Show yourself," he demanded in an authoritarian tone, ignoring the fact he was weaponless. Silence settled over the area as Athos stood there waiting for the lurker to appear.

"Roger is an odd name for a horse," a voice from behind him stated.

Athos spun around quickly, expecting to confront his stalker. Yet the barn remained empty other than the grey donkey. A wave of dizziness, brought on by his spin, left him momentarily feeling weak so he sank back down on the hay bale once more. Dropping his head into his hands, he muttered, "I'm going crazy."

"What makes you say that?" the voice asked with friendly concern.

Without lifting his head out of his hands, the musketeer replied, "Because I'm talking to myself since no one else is here."

"I like to think I'm someone."

Knowing it was futile, but doing it anyways, Athos raised his head from his hands and looked around once more. After scanning the stables and confirming for the fifth time it was empty, his eyes settled back on the grey donkey, who, he swore, winked at him.

"Go ahead. Ask."

So, slowly, though not knowing why, he did. "You...can...speak?"

"My name is Gui. That is mistletoe in French," the donkey informed him smugly.

"Yes. I know. I am French," Athos declared, though his tone held a hint of disbelief that he was conversing with an animal.

"Yes, so you are. A musketeer, I believe. Noble profession."

That comment from the donkey caused Athos to snort. "Not always. And, one that apparently drives one to insanity."

The donkey shuffled its hooves as if to get more comfortable. "Why do you think you're insane?"

The swordsman gave the donkey a half-amused glance. "From where you sit...or rather stand, conversing with an animal might seem...normal. From where I sit, not so much."

The donkey considered that for a moment. "Does it make you feel like an ass, conversing with an ass?"

If donkeys could grin, Athos swore the little grey animal was grinning from one floppy ear to the other.

"Do you never converse with, what did you say your steed's name was? Roger? Not even when on long journeys, as I assume you musketeers must make in the name of the King?"

Athos shifted on his hay bale, letting the wood panel of the stall behind him support his back. He couldn't believe he was sitting here conversing with a donkey, and a rather witty one at that. Imagine the ribbing he would take from his brothers if they found out, at least before they locked him away.

He looked into the warm, liquid brown eyes in the long furry face that appeared to be patiently waiting for his response. "I suppose on occasion I have talked to Roger, though I feel the obligation to point out he has never responded. It always has been a...one way...dialogue."

"Have you ever talked to him on the eve of our Savior's birth?" The look on Athos' face answered the question, so the little animal went on. "You really should, if you have the opportunity. You might learn something that would make your relationship better. Stronger. And you could ask him if he really likes his name."

"You seem overly concerned about his name, for an," the was a slight pause as Athos considered his words, "for a burro."

"Burro," the donkey brayed with delight. "You speak Spanish?"

"Speak? Not really. Understand. Some. However, my friend speaks fluent Spanish."

"I have met a few equines from Spain on my travels."

Athos regard the little grey donkey again, sizing him up. "Do you travel a lot?"

"Don't let my diminutive size fool you, musketeer. After all, my brethren did carry our Lord's mother to Bethlehem and then later to Egypt. We are very powerful beasts. And smart I might add. I have the honor of accompanying the Abbott every Christmas Eve on his sacred mission."

"The Abbott?" Athos asked, for he was unaware he was in an Abbey.

"Abbot DuBois. Have you not met him?" The donkey seemed puzzled at that, because everyone knew the Abbot.

"I have been...ill. Perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me where I am?"'

The grey donkey shifted his feet again before cocking his right hind foot as if he was settling into a more comfortable position for a prolonged conversation. "You are at the Abbey of Saint-Germain d'Auxerre, built a long time ago and named after its original Bishop."

"You knew him?"

Now it was he donkey's turn to snort. "What? You think me immortal? Supernatural?"

"You do talk," the swordsman wryly pointed out.

"On Christmas Eve, when it is appropriate. And of course, the Abbot and I can converse year-round, should we choose. But that comes with the job."

"I didn't realize talking to animals was part of an Abbott's job." Athos reply was somewhat more sarcastic than he intended, though the tough little animal didn't take offense.

"Not all Abbott's. Just the Abbott of this special Abbey. It can come in handy, though one has to be careful. Squirrels for example, quite distracted fellows to converse with, and forgetful. Birds are good for directions, but don't believe their distances. Ground obstacles, such as rivers and large rock formations mean nothing to the feathered sector, but are a bit more challenging to us land-based creatures."

"I see," said Athos slowly, though he really didn't. Shifting his stiffening body to a more comfortable position he asked, "Why does the Abbott of Saint-Germain d'Auxerre need to converse with animals?"

"Because he is also Pére Noël," the donkey stated patiently, as if Athos was being willfully dense.

"Pére Noël!" Athos exclaimed and suddenly recalled why he came here it he first place. "A horse. I must find a horse."

Frantically, he leapt to his feet and took a few steps before he stumbled. Had it not been for the fast action of the donkey, he would have landed face first in the dirt. But the plucky creature stuck his nose and neck under Athos' arm and helped steady the man. Instinctively, the swordsman grasped wiry mane to balance himself. The man and beast stood for a moment in the center aisle, Athos leaning heavily on the warm back of the donkey. The pleasant odor of equine washed over him, comforting because of so many hours he spent on one. He closed his eyes and began to drift away.

"Oh no, my friend," the donkey said as he slowly started walking, forcing the musketeer to move along with him.

The pair ambled down the aisle, in the direction of the entryway, until they came across another convenient hay bale. The burro stepped next to it and Athos slithered down upon it. The donkey nosed him to get him to shift into a more secure position, with his back against a stall door once more. Once the man was seated to his satisfaction, the donkey switched from supporting to sniffing. His soft pink-rimmed nostrils flared as his velvety black-tipped nose explored the man's torso.

Athos, who was half asleep, came awake. "What are you doing?" he questioned as he swatted at the obtrusive nose and tickling breath. "You're worse than Aramis," he proclaimed as he pushed the questing lips aside.

The donkey withdrew his head with a displeased snort. "You smell of mint. I was looking for payment."

"A salve of Aramis' concoction I'm sure. Payment?"

For an animal, the donkey had a very expressive face. Right now it was showing disbelief. "Well I do believe I just carried you halfway up the aisle over my poor shoulders. Don't you have a carrot or maybe an apple on your person? The Abbott always does. I really like apples."

Athos couldn't stop the small quirk in the corner of his lips. "You sound like Porthos."

"Aramis and Porthos. They are fond of apples and carrots too? Are they your other warhorses along with the oddly named Roger? I must say, you do pick peculiar names for your steeds."

A wistful expression flitted across the musketeer's face. "My brothers. They are my brothers, along with d'Artagnan," he said very softly.

But to the long, keen ears of a donkey, nothing is too soft. "Brothers. How nice. I was an only foal. It was a little lonely, but on the bright side I didn't have to compete for my mother's teat."

Thinking of his brothers made Athos realize he didn't know where they were! He started to rise again to go search for them, but a forceful, but careful, nose bump had him sitting down again.

"The Abbott mentioned earlier that four musketeers had appeared at his gate earlier today seeking shelter. Two were near frozen and exhausted and the others not much better off. A most inconvenient night for guests, though I've no doubt the good Abbott was resourceful. You don't get to his position being a dumb bunny. And for the record, not all rabbits are unintelligent. A few are a little fluffy between the ears, but overall not a bad group."

The burro could see Athos getting impatient again, so he got to the point. "I'm sure your brothers are upstairs sleeping, safe and sound in one of the Abbey's guest chambers. For an Abbey in a somewhat remote location with a secret mission, we do get a surprising number of visitors. Though, as I stated earlier, never on Christmas Eve."

Athos, for some reason, was reassured by the words of the kindly, grey animal. "I am glad my brothers are safe. But, I still must find transportation to Pinon. I shall not disgrace my family in this too." He determinedly went to rise, but the equally insistent donkey head-butted him down again.

"Does Roger have this much trouble taking care of you?" the somewhat frustrated donkey inquired as he head-butted Athos down once more. This time, it seemed to work for Athos did not try to rise a third time. He couldn't for the head-butting was killing his ribs.

"Roger, take care of me?" Athos pondered as he worked to catch his breath, momentarily forgetting his objective to get to Pinon. "I take care of him."

That brought out a laughing bray from the grey beast. "I have yet to meet this oddly named Roger, but I'm willing to bet he takes care of you, which, from what I see tonight, must be quite a job."

Contemplating that statement, Athos thought back across many of his adventures with his trusty steed. The damn burro was right. Roger did take care of him, though it was a partnership which went both ways.

"So," the inquisitive little animal asked, "Are you going to tell me how Roger came about to be so named?"

"No."

"After all we have been through," the stubborn beast persisted. "I could have let you wander lost around the stables all night. But I did stop to talk with you, which is kind of a blessing you know."

"Blessing?" Athos gave a little snort of his own. "Trust me, nothing about me is blessed."

"Not blessed? Why I think God must smile mightily upon you. First of all, you are alive. That, I have to suspect is a mighty blessing for a musketeer. And being a musketeer is a blessing. Protecting King and Country. How important is that? You appear to be in one piece and for the most part, though currently run down, in good health. How are those not blessings? And," the donkey added slyly, "I am talking to you. I don't talk to just anyone."

A laugh floated out of the semi-darkness as the Abbott stealthily glided up to the donkey and affectionately scratched him on the neck behind his floppy ears. "That has not been my experience," the religious man said. "I find you quite chatty."

The donkey, whose eyes were half-shut with ecstasy as he got scratched in one of his favorite places, only gave a little grunt in reply.

Athos simply sat on the bale of hay watching the Abbott and his little grey companion in a moderate state of disbelief. Pinon floated back into his fevered brain and he realized sitting here watching a man of the cloth talk to an animal, no matter how novel, wasn't solving the problem of transportation to Pinon. Clearing his throat, he interrupted the idyllic pair. "Abbott. Can you tell me where my horse might be?"

"Roger," the burro interjected sleepily. "He named his horse Roger."

"Roger?" the Abbott said reflectively. "That is an odd name for a horse."

"I know," confirmed the burro. "And he won't tell me how the horse got that name."

Athos scrubbed a weary hand across his face. Again, with the name of his horse. "It is a …long story of not much interest. What is vital is that I get to Pinon, tonight."

The Abbott stopped scratching the donkey's neck, much to the dismay of the furry, grey beast, who showed his displeasure by butting his head against the Abbott's idle hand, as if to remind him of what he was supposed to be doing.

"Pinon? What is so important that you would risk your life to get there tonight? A secret mission from the King?" the Abbott inquired. "You are not well."

Says the man who is also conversing with an ass, Athos thought silently. Said ass, was now nosing about the Abbott's robes in search of treats, as he had done earlier to Athos. Absentmindedly, the priest pulled out a piece of carrot and fed it to the inquisitive lips. The sound of crunching wafted through the air as the beast enjoyed his snack. The donkey gave Athos an 'I told you so' look as he munched away.

"Pinon?" the Abbott prompted the musketeer who seemed to be lost, staring at Gui.

Giving himself a mental shake, Athos focused back on the talking human in the stable. "Is Roger here?" he demanded.

"You rode in tandem with the other musketeers, only two horses between the four of you." When he saw Athos glancing about, he added, "We did borrow your two mounts for the evening."

"Borrow?" Athos asked, his voice lowering and a dangerous edge coming to his voice. "What needs would an Abbey have for two musketeer horses?"

"Same thing I asked when the Abbott has a trusty burro like myself around," Gui interjected, his tone accusatory.

The Abbott affectionately ruffled the donkey's fur. "No one could replace you, Gui, my furry little friend. You are worth your weight in gold."

"Our horses?" Athos reminded them with a growl.

"They are being used to deliver presents, of course, since it is Christmas Eve and I am Pére Noël, at least for this night."

Athos closed his eyes and wearily sank back against the stall. First a talking donkey and now Pére Noël. He must be very ill indeed to be having such hallucinations.


	25. Chapter 25

CHAPTER 25

"Athos? Are you alright?" the Abbott asked in concern when the musketeer closed his eyes and seemed to slump into himself.

"I can't be very well if I am sitting in a stable, on Christmas Eve, talking to Pére Noël and his donkey, Gui," the musketeer sarcastically stated, keeping his eyes shut and his head bowed. He'd failed his family once more for he could imagine no way this night ended with presents in Pinon. His father had been right all those years ago when he told Athos he wasn't proper material for a Comte.

A warm, soft nose, gently brushed against his uninjured cheek. It felt good and he actually leaned into the nuzzling, enjoying the feeling. When it was withdrawn, he opened his eyes and saw the long, grey face of the donkey staring at him. He reached up and patted the grey nose in a rather affectionate manner.

"I'll bet Roger enjoys working with you," the little donkey stated as he contentedly stood there having his muzzle massaged.

"I hate to interrupt your moment of bliss, Gui, but we really must be going," the Abbott said kindly, but firmly. "The night awaits us and time is not on our side."

Pinon! Athos realized he had been sidetracked again. He abruptly stopped petting the burro and rose to his feet before the Abbot could stop him. "There must be some form of transportation in this Abbey!" he cried out, desperation coloring his tone. "I must get to Pinon!"

"As I said before, there is no one left in the Abbey this night besides your slumbering friends…"

Athos eyes flew to the Abbott's face for confirmation of what he thought he heard.

"…yes. Your fellow musketeers are safely sleeping in the guest chamber."

"Brothers," injected the donkey. "They are his brothers. He is not an only foal."

The Abbott gave the burro a smile. "I have heard the tale of the brothers who do not look like brothers."

"They are brothers of my heart. The only blood we share is that which has been spilled on the field of battle. They are dear to me," the musketeer solemnly swore.

"Well, your brothers are safe and sound. And all of my brothers…"

"By that he means the monks in the Abbey," the donkey helpfully interposed.

"…are out on their appointed rounds for this night. I'm afraid the only means of transportation left would be Gui and I."

The musketeer slumped back against the hay bale, dropping his head into his hands and groaning. "Then I have fulfilled my father's prophesy. I am a total disgrace."

Using his strong white teeth, Gui helpfully dragged another hay bale from across the aisle, in front of the one on which Athos slumped and the Abbott perched upon it. Gui took up watch to the religious man's left, his long face nearly resting on the man's shoulder. Reaching across the narrow space that separated them, the Abbott placed a comforting hand on the musketeer's shoulder.

"Why is it so urgent to reach this Pinon tonight?" the Abbott asked as he patted Athos' bowed shoulder before removing his hand.

"It is Christmas Eve," Athos stated woodenly. "We, under the guise of Pére Noël, always deliver smalls gifts, toys, food, warm clothing, to the children of Pinon. And this year there will be nothing and it is all my fault. My father said I wasn't cut out to be a Comte and he was right for I can't even carry out this small task, that my ancestors have been accomplishing for centuries."

"Well, I do admit you and your brothers' presence here has been a tiny bit disruptive, and has put us a little behind schedule, but God will make sure we have all the time we need to complete our good works this night," the Abbott declared as one who had the utmost faith in the Almighty.

The donkey bobbed his head in agreement over the Abbott's left shoulder. "I may look like a small, grey donkey to you, but I'm very gifted."

"Yes. You talk," Athos said wryly as he lifted his head to stare off into the distance. "But I am afraid your gift of speech will not be an aid to me tonight."

"Oh, I don't know about that," the confident beast declared. "You might be surprised."

"Why would you deliver gifts to the children of Pinon?" the somewhat confused Abbott asked. "That is Pére Noël's mission, not one of a musketeer."

Unconsciously straightening his spine, Athos declared, "I am the Comte de la Fére."

"I thought you were a musketeer?" the donkey interrupted.

Sighing, Athos replied, "It is a long, sordid, story."

"All your stories seem to be long," the beast grumbled as he twitched his floppy ear.

"Go on," the Abbott kindly encouraged, elbowing his furry friend in the side.

"I am the first-born son of the Comte de la Fére, now deceased, which makes me the Comte, though technically I renounced my title and claims and gave them to the people of Pinon."

"You can't renounce your title, can you?" the Abbott asked with curiosity.

A small bitter chuckle escaped the musketeer's lips. "It would seem one can't. Not without causing a lot of…suffering. However, I did place the innkeeper of Pinon in the position of Mayor. He has my seal and can act in my name. It is my solemn intention to never go back there again."

"Why is that?" asked the donkey, who received another poke from the Abbott.

"Long story," Athos declared once more.

"Why am I not surprised," the grey burro bellyached under his breath.

The Abbott was still trying to work through this strange tale. "If you are to have no more to do with Pinon, as you stated, then why do you need to go there tonight and pretend to deliver gifts from Pére Noël?"

Athos' green eyes focused on the inquisitive Abbott's face. "Because, Father, it is my duty. I may be a poor Comte, husband, friend and even musketeer, but I do understand the meaning of duty. And honor. And by not getting to Pinon tonight, I have sullied both."

"I don't understand, Abbott," the donkey said moving around to the side to better see the man. "I thought we delivered gifts? Why is he doing it?" The grey donkey with the black tipped nose almost seemed offended that someone appeared to be messing with their mission.

"That, my furry little friend, is a very good question. One I shall pose to Brother Bernard upon his return. He keeps the books. Maybe he knows some history, of which you and I are unware." The Abbott turned from addressing the donkey, back to the musketeer. "So, your family has been delivering gifts on Christmas Eve to the children of Pinon?"

"Not quite delivering. My family gathers the gifts and places them in the innkeeper's barn. He actually places the items in the waiting shoes of the children. I imagine this arrangement came from both dignity and practicality. I can't imagine my ancestors wishing to sullying themselves by sneaking into the hovels of the people of Pinon, nor can I fathom the reaction should they have been caught. Making it the innkeeper's role was a…practical and pride-saving solution."

The Abbott appeared confused. "Pride-saving?"

Again, a ghost of a smile appeared on the tired musketeers face. "Nobility don't wish to be perceived as caring too much about their serfs, or servants for that matter. All acts of …kindness, no matter how small, have to be hidden from view unless you wished to be perceived as …weak. We are the ruling class, my father once lectured me. We are to lead and tell others how to properly …follow. It was another area in which I failed my father by not believing as strongly in that caste system as he and my ancestors. However, it has been my experience that people do well enough on their own in their normal lives. They don't need leadership from an aristocrat."

"That seems like an odd statement from a Comte and especially a solider. The army thrives on the chain of command I always thought," the Abbott stated, for he had some experiences with France's military. Rank and order always seemed the directive of the day.

Shifting his position slightly on the hay, Athos plucked out a straw of grass and twirled it between his fingers while he considered the Abbott's comment. "When you are trying to organize something, whether it be a battle or a dinner party, there must indeed be someone in charge to ensure things get carried out correctly. Lives depend on it. Well, in battle anyway. Thus, the military needs, thrives, on the concept of rank. It is for survival." He paused a minute in reflection. "I fear we fail our poor Captain Treville in that area. He says commanding the four of us is rather like riding herd on a group of cats."

The burro burst out braying once more. "Oh, you and your brothers must be quite a handful if he equates you like that. It is impossible to get a group of cats to agree on anything, or to do what you want. Most willful creatures. Smart, but independent."

Athos' fever-flushed cheeks appeared to deepen in color. "I fear we have given our Captain a good portion of the grey hair that is liberally sprinkled about his head."

"Hey, grey is a great color!" the burro exclaimed with a stamp of his hoof and a swish of his tail.

"No offence intended," Athos declared raising his hands in a peaceful manner. "But, to bring this conversation to a close, rank is needed in the military, but not for the daily lives of the people of Pinon. They can oversee that themselves."

Athos closed his eyes and leaned his head against the stall door behind him, taking a deep breath, which aggravated his bruised ribs and made him wince. The Abbott saw both the physical and mental pain the musketeer was in and knew what he had to do.

"I don't know why Pére Noël seems to have forgotten the village of Pinon all these years, but on behalf of myself and my brothers from the past, we thank you and your family for seeing we were well represented." A thought occurred to the Abbott. "If we having been missing Pinon all these years, what about you. Didn't Pére Noël ever visit you?"

That sad, self-depreciating expression crossed Athos' face again. "My father told me I was not worthy of a visit from Pére Noël, though he often left things in my brother's shoes." Opening his eyes, he glanced up at the ceiling of the stable, before adding, "But that was a long time ago." He dropped his eyes to his hands. "Childish notions."

"It is never childish to want to be loved," the Abbott declared softly. "For God so loved the world, as to give his only begotten Son; that whosoever believeth in him, may not perish, but may have life everlasting. After all, is not tonight the start of that story? Mary, giving birth to our Lord."

"And don't forget the noble donkey who carried her and stood by in the stable to watch, guard and spread the good news!" the grey animal said with pride. "God was so appreciative, he placed a cross on the backs of me and my brothers as a sign of remembrance."

"That is just a tale, my long-eared friend," the Abbott said kindly as he reached over and ran his head over the black stripe on the donkey's back.

"Believe what you want," the little donkey sniffed in a rather offend manner. "I say it is a sign of divine blessing."

"Back to the point, Pére Noël shall take over the burden of delivering the gifts to Pinon from now on, Athos. You and your family have done our duty long enough. I'm not sure how it happened, but I shall be sure Brother Bernard straightens it out. You will never need to worry the children of Pinon are ever neglected. And Gui and I shall go straight away now to ensure they are not forgotten this Christmas Eve."

Athos actually burst out laughing. "It is a very long way from here to Pinon, Abbott. As strong as this little guy is," he reached over and ruffled the donkey's mane, "you cannot make it to Pinon before the sunrises." He dropped his hand back to his side. "No, they shall be disappointed this year."

"Oh, ye of little faith," the Abbott said with such confidence, Athos raised his eyes and stared at the monk.

"But…"

"Pére Noël and his faithful steed Gui shall prevail. Trust and have faith."

That sad little smile appeared on Athos face again. "Alas, those are two things I am not good at, trust and faith. God has abandon me long ago, rightly so, and life has taught me trust is a very fragile item, best to be left alone."

The Abbott, even though he realized now was not the appropriate time to preach, couldn't stop himself. God placed the perfect verse into this head. The little burro bobbed his head in time to the cadence of the Abbott's words as he spoke. "For my father and my mother have forsaken me, but the Lord will take me in. Teach me your way, O Lord, and lead me on a level path because of my enemies. Give me not up to the will of my adversaries; for false witnesses have risen against me, and they breathe out violence. I believe that I shall look upon the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living! Wait for the Lord; be strong, and let your heart take courage; wait for the Lord!"

A moment of silence settled over the stable. "For now, Athos, believe what you can. But I swear on all that is holy, Gui and I shall carry out your mission tonight and we will not fail. But first, you need to go back to the chambers where your brothers slumber. I can't have you spending the night in the stable."

"Want me to carry you back?" the donkey inquired, pushing his long muzzle against Athos' torso once more. "I'm stronger than you give me credit for, like your brother Porthos I bet."

"I am weary, very weary and I don't know what to make of any of this," Athos said as he swept his hand through the air. "Strange dream brought on by a fever I suppose of which I shall wake up in a bed somewhere. I confess I have no memory of where said bed is, so yes, I will allow you to guide me, Gui, but I shall not impose upon you as to ask for a ride."

"It's no imposition. We donkeys have a long lineage of providing rides to important people."

"None the less, I am not important and won't ride, but I will walk beside you, as a friend, and perhaps place my hand upon your sturdy back now and then for support," the musketeer said with sincerity. "You have been kind to me tonight and I appreciate it."

"Enough to give me a carrot or apple?" the little beast wheedled as they headed for the stable door.

"Remember what our Lord said about gluttony my greedy little friend," the Abbott reproached the donkey, wagging a finger at him. "I'll shall meet you at the gate in twenty minutes." With that, the Abbott glided away.

"He says that," the donkey grumbled as he and Athos proceeded through the stable door back into the long stone hallway. "But if every meal he ate consisted of either grass or hay, he'd be looking for some variety too."

Athos followed alongside his witty companion. "If you say you will deliver the gifts to Pinon tonight…,"

"And we will."

"…where will they come from? Surely an Abbey does not have children's toy and clothes lying about," Athos declared with some level of certainty, though after tonight, nothing seemed impossible.

They were even with the open doors, which were still spilling their pools of light into the semi-dark corridor. The donkey nudged him into the first room on the right, filled with bolts of cloth and sewing supplies.

"This is where the monks, who have been assigned to make clothes, work. They are quite capable of making basic items of necessity for children. They also make the robes for the Abbey and once a cozy blanket for me."

Nudging the dazzled musketeer from the room, they went into the second room, this one on the left-side of the hall.

"And this is where the food gifts are made. Nuts, sweetmeats and such. The Abbott wants to talk about gluttony? He should see how much of what the monks make does not end up in the sacks for the children. I'll tell you, for grown men these monks have a large sweet tooth."

Athos bent over and picked up a stray walnut from the ground and dropped it in his pocket.

"And do you not like a sweet treat, now and then my floppy-eared friend? Perhaps to sweeten your oats as my brother Porthos does?"

Athos walked over to one of the tables and found a container of sugar. Pouring some into the palm of his hand, he moved back to the animal and presented his offering. The velvet lips tickled has they slurped up the grains from his hands. When his palm was empty, he rubbed it on the side of the donkey's cheek. "Sweet tooth, hmmmm."

"I don't suppose you'd get me some more?" the little beast tried to persuade the musketeer. When he saw the man was not to be swayed, he moved back to the hallway and then into the third room. "Here, the monks make the toys. Again, some are very skilled and others, well let's say they are given the more basic tasks. But every monk here contributes in some way to our mission."

They went back into the hallway once more, moving towards the staircase at the end.

"And no one knows of this secret…mission you carry out?" Athos skeptically questioned the donkey.

"The Abbey was assigned this role shortly after being built. The monks and my brethren have been hiding this secret for many, many centuries. We're rather good at it."

They stopped at the base of the long staircase. "Can you climb stairs oh fair beast of burden?" Athos asked in a diplomatic tone with an undertone of mirth.

With a snort that Athos was beginning to recognize meant he had just asked a stupid question, the donkey replied, "Can your ill-named horse, Roger climb stairs?"

Athos paused for a moment and thought. "Yes. Yes, he can. But going down can be an issue."

"I hear that," the grey beast concurred as he began to climb the stairs. "It's a matter of how God built us. Not many stairs in nature. And if a hill were as steep as some stairs, well we'd simply walk around until we found another path."

Once at the top, he deftly led them in the right direction, though he noticed the tired musketeer was leaning on him for more support with each step. At last, they arrived at the chamber, and the donkey nosed open the door and walked in. He led Athos over to a bed and encouraged him to sit upon it.

"My brothers?" Athos said with rising panic as he looked at the empty beds.

"…are safely slumbering in the chairs by the fire," the donkey explained calmly as he walked over to look at them. "They must have, ah, fallen asleep after they ate the good food the monks prepared. I'm sure they were, hmm, very exhausted from their heroic rescue efforts."

"Yes. They saved us. Me and Aramis."

The donkey, who had been examining the three sleeping musketeers proclaimed, "It is strange, they don't look like you. They all are darker of skin, especially that one," he said as he tossed his head in Porthos' direction. "Even with a fever you are much paler. You must have issues in the sun with that pale skin. Me, I have a nice coat year-round to protect my pale skin."

The little beast inhaled loudly. "And they don't smell like you. And yet," he said taking another deep whiff and stepping back to look at all of them, "I can sense a bond, a very strong one, between all of you. You have chosen your herd mates well, Athos."

"I think," the musketeer stated with a huge yawn, "they more chose me."

"Well, however, it worked out," the little donkey supposed as he walked over to Athos and basically pushed the slumping musketeer flat onto the bed, "It's good. For them and you. Time for you to go to sleep. The Abbott will not be in a good mood if I'm late."

With surprising dexterity, the talented grey donkey used his teeth to pull the wool blanket over the prone musketeer, who was on the very edge of consciousness. "Human skin. Way to frail. I plan to ask God why he designed you that way, without fur I mean. Sleep tight."

Athos rolled onto his side. "It was nice to meet you, donkey of my dreams. I don't suppose our paths shall ever cross again."

"Well you could come back next Christmas Eve, to talk to me I mean. It has been fun and I still don't know how Roger got his name," the burro complained. "Next Christmas Eve you may want to seek out Roger, ask him a question or two, especially about his name." Then the little grey beast sighed, "It has been a pleasure conversing with you, Athos. We will see if it is God's will that our paths cross once more."

"Likewise," Athos mumbled as he drifted off to sleep.

With that, the little grey donkey walked out the door, after taking a short detour by the table checking for any stray apples or carrots that might have been left upon it scarred surface. Using his hind foot, he kicked the door shut and though it made a banging noise, no one from within stirred.

"Take care of yourself, Athos," and with that the little grey donkey whose ancestors had once carried Mary, went about on his own mission, to spread joy with Pére Noël."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: Thanks to all who voted for Choices as the Dec challenge story. It was a honor and a pleasant surprise at the end of a long day.


	26. Chapter 26

CHAPTER 26

D'Artagnan woke first in the morning, stiff and cold because the fire had burned down to embers. There were plenty of logs in a carrier by the fireplace and in no time he had a cheery roaring fire. Aramis and Porthos woke next, their bones and joints snapping as much as the fire, or at least that is what d'Artagnan claimed.

Once awake, Aramis moved quickly to the bed to check on Athos, who was also showing signs of rousing. A hand on the swordsman's forehead showed his fever must have broken in the night and the green eyes that opened, blinked a few times, then focused on him were clear and bright.

"Your fever has broken. How do you feel?" Aramis asked as he helped the musketeer sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bed.

As usual, Athos remained silent for a while before answering, "Better, I think."

Aramis, chuckled as he walked over to the fire place and held out his hands to warm them. "It's a marvel. Athos is not fine. He's better…well at least he thinks he is better. And that, gentleman is a Christmas miracle."

The walnut, which Athos strangely found in his pocket, whizzed by Aramis' head with only inches to spare before slamming into the wall on the other side of the room.

"What's that?" Porthos asked, who was hungry and had seen the walnut projectile fly by. He walked over to where it had landed and picked it up, the shell separating in his hand. "Funny way to crack open a nut," he jested as he popped half of its contents in his mouth.

"Hey. It's Christmas. Share," d'Artagnan declared as he marched over and took the other piece.

"After all you ate last night? How can you possibly be hungry" Porthos questioned as he scowled at the lad who had taken his treat.

D'Artagnan offered it to Aramis and Athos, who shook their heads no, before popping it in his mouth. "I seem to recall," he declared after swallowing, "you did major damage to that feast yourself."

"It seems," Aramis said thoughtfully, "We all ate so much we must have fallen asleep, immediately, in front of the fire, and stayed there all night without moving."

"Explains my stiff bones," Porthos groused as he cracked a few more joints.

"Yes. It does. And we were all exhausted." However, it didn't seem like Aramis was totally comfortable with that thought, but before he could say anything more, a discrete knock came upon the door.

Porthos strode over and opened it, emitting Abbott Dubois. "Joyeux Noël," he declared brightly as he entered the room. "I wanted to invite you to our Christmas morning mass. We do things a little different here at the Abbey of Saint-Germain d'Auxerre. Instead of a midnight mass, we have a morning mass and then our feast. We are hoping you are well enough to join us in celebrating this wonderful day."

Athos felt that the Abbott's attention lingered on him as he swept his gaze over the four musketeers.

"That would be wonderful, Abbott DuBois," Aramis declared speaking for the group. "I can't believe I missed midnight mass. I haven't missed one in years, whether in Paris or a small gathering in the field. It is a magical night, so full of hope. Even in the middle of the battlefield, the majesty of our Savior's birth can bring gladness to a weary soul."

"For a child is born to us, and a son is given to us, and the government is upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, God the Mighty, the Father of the world to come, the Prince of Peace," the Abbott softly quoted followed by an immediate amen from Aramis and slightly delayed one from Porthos and d'Artagnan.

Athos, still sitting on the bed, remained silent as he studied the Abbott, who, when he noticed the scrutiny, walked towards the bed. Unsteadily, Athos rose to his feet, not one to meet anyone in a disadvantaged position, even a priest.

"I'm Abbott DuBois. We have not met yet as you were unconscious when your brothers brought you in. I'm delighted to see you are better."

The Abbott stood there congenially smiling at him, and while Athos didn't necessarily sense any danger from the man, he did feel as if they had met before, which of course was not possible. As the Abbott had said, he was not even aware of where he was, let alone who was in charge. Always the Comte, he politely said, "We thank you for your hospitality and will not impose on you at length."

"Impose? The King's musketeers are never an imposition. Why it is our fault, the way I see it, that you are here in the first place. Had it not been for that message from the King, you would have been safe and sound in your garrison, enjoying this day with your companions. I only hope that you will find some joy and peace in our modest celebration."

Aramis, d'Artagnan and Porthos discreetly moved to their fourth brother's side, ready to support him in any way he required. As the four musketeers stood by each other's side, the Abbott could feel the bond that Gui had blathered on about all night on their trip. It was, as Gui said, a gift from God as were their own talents.

"I will leave you to make ready," the Abbott said politely with a little bow as he did the magical glide out the door. "Service is at 9. Dinner at noon. Simply follow the sound of singing and your nose and you will find your way."

After he left, the four musketeers went about cleaning up, using the bathing room that the Abbot had told them about down the hall. Aramis had tut-tutted over the bruises covering Athos' left side and insisted he be allowed to wrap his ribs. He also examined the burn and declared the infection gone. Checking for frostbite, Aramis also did a head to toe examine of the swordsman, who in no manner submitted to it graciously.

Porthos and d'Artagnan were curious how Athos' arm had been burnt, but the distressed look on Aramis' face and the discreet head shake from Athos had them quelling their inquisitiveness. Another story for another time.

Once back in their rooms, Athos dropped into a chair by the fire, already feeling tried from simply getting washed up. He kept trying to think back if he could have ever run across the Abbott before, for he still had the feeling he had met the man. "Aramis. Do you recall if we have ever met this Abbott before in our travels?"

Aramis, who was working on his hair, paused and thought about that for a moment. "No. I do not believe so. Why?"

Athos declined to answer, simply staring moodily into the fire until Aramis came over and handed him his boots. "Can't have you going to church in your stocking feet."

"I will wait here," Athos declared with some degree of finality, which was immediately over-ridden by Aramis.

"No, you will not. Don't test me on this one. Now, do you need help getting those on?" Aramis asked, his tone telling Athos this was one battle of wills he was not going to win.

"No," he grumbled grouchily as he accepted the boots from his brother.

Aramis moved back across the room to sit on the bed and put his own boots on.

Athos stuck his right foot in, and when it reached the bottom, he felt something, like a piece of paper. With annoyance, he withdrew his foot and instead reached in a hand. His fingers touched a folded piece of parchment, which he withdrew and opened.

"It has been done. Thank you and your family for carrying the burden for so many years."

Athos sat there staring at the note. What had been done? Was this even meant for him? Then the wildest imagines of a midnight sojourn and a talking donkey flooded his mind. Fever dreams, he scoffed, though it felt incredibly real to him. As he sat there daydreaming, his brothers had finished dressing and were headed for the door.

"Athos. Are you ready?" Aramis yelled over, seeing his brother was still sitting in the chair bootless. He started to walk in that direction.

Athos, hearing him approach, hid the note in his pocket, before hurrying to shove his foot into the now vacant boot. Before Aramis could touch it, he grabbed the other boot and held it away from Aramis' reach. "I don't need any assistance."

Aramis, crossed his arms over his chest and huffed. "We are waiting. It wouldn't be polite to be late."

"Would you mind getting my scarf off the bed?" Athos asked to distract his brother. "I don't wish to get a chill."

Complaining mildly, Aramis moved towards the bed and as soon as his back was turned, Athos reached into his boot in case it also contained a note. To his surprise, he withdrew a small apple, which he quickly palmed into his pocket. By the time Aramis came back with the scarf, he had both boots on and was standing ready.

The Abbott was right, it was not difficult to find the sanctuary, the strains of a Christmas carol ringing down the old stone wall of the Abbey, almost as if the rocks themselves were joining in the rejoicing. When they entered the church, they noticed live animals in the front near the altar.

"We use live animals in our crèche. A tradition of the Abbey," Abbott DuBois informed them. As usual, he had glided out of nowhere to their sides as they entered.

Athos stepped into the sanctuary and immediately came to a halt, staring at the animals. Then, instead of slinking to a pew in the deep recesses of the church, he uncharacteristically marched down the aisle. He chose a pew near the front, sat and stared at the live animals in the crèche, especially the donkey.

"It is nice to sit in the front where I can hear for once," Aramis joshed as moved over Athos to sit on his far side.

Athos refused to give up his aisle location, so the rest of them climbed awkwardly over him too. Athos was known to cat nap during most services, so Aramis was surprised when he didn't catch the man sleeping once. It seemed that he was utterly fixated on the crèche, and in particular on the donkey.

At the end of the service, the brothers led the animals down the aisle while the congregation waited. As the little grey donkey with the black stripe on his back drew near to Athos, it veered in his direction and began searching his body with its velvet lips.

Athos withdrew the apple from his pocket and offered it up to the questing lips. The donkey took it graciously, eating it in three bites before sticking his nose on Athos' person once more.

"Glutton," Athos breathed under his breath.

The brother controlling the animal pulled on its lead to encourage the donkey to move on. And Athos would have sworn, as the long grey face tuned away, that the burro winked at him.

The rest of the day, Athos participated in the proceedings as much as he ever did, which meant he sat to the side and was mostly quiet. Back in the room that night, after dinner, he gratefully sank into one of the chairs by the fire, to be joined by his brothers.

"It was nice you had an apple for that donkey. Must be hard for the fellow to hang out there for so long. Where did you get it from?" d'Artagnan asked as he loosened his tunic.

"It must have been from…dinner…the night before," Athos lied smoothly, though none of his brothers recalled that there had been apples at the meal.

"Well, you seemed quite entranced with that crèche," Aramis noted as he took off his boots and wiggled his toes. "First time you have not fallen asleep in church. It seemed as if you were deep in thought over something. Care to share?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Athos muttered under his breath. Talking donkey. Pére Noël. He must have a slight concession on top of all his other injuries for he was having hallucinations.

Porthos, who had poured them each a glass of wine, handed them round then proposed a toast. "To another year survived. May there be many more."

They each drank deeply from their glasses, then made small talk. Later that evening, as they prepared for bed, Athos asked Aramis a question.

"I have heard it is said the cross, on a donkey's back, was placed there as a sign, a mark of favor from God. I did notice that little donkey in the church today had such a mark."

Aramis smiled at his brother. "I too have heard that story. I suppose anything is possible. Why do you ask?"

"Someone mentioned it to me and I was…curious." Athos laid down on the bed, but sleep took a while to claim him for he kept thinking of a little grey donkey who had winked him at the service. A dream, wasn't it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: One more chapter...an epilogue if you will...then we say goodbye to this Christmas tale that was a month late.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: So, here we are at the last chapter. I hope you have enjoyed the tale. Thanks for sticking with me even past the holiday season. As always, feel free to leave final comments for I enjoy reading them after a day at work. And yes, I will probably do a piece with Roger and Gui some day. The little donkey is just too much fun to write. Until next time, be well.

EPILOGUE

It seemed like the winter's snow was never going to let up. After the accident that sent Athos and Aramis tumbling into the icy river, Captain Tréville made sure every single horse in the garrison was shoed with snowshoes to include the gelding that had been rescued by the river along with Athos' saddle.

Athos and Aramis had recovered, though for at least a month afterwards, the Captain had assured their assignments kept them close to the garrison as well as inside. While he thought he was doing them a kindness, the two musketeers began to go stir crazy. He wasn't sure which one of the four came up with the idea, though he thoroughly suspected it was Athos.

He'd assigned the four to make a exhaustive inspection of the armory and note what needed maintenance, sharpening, repair or replacement. Whether he saw eye rolls and fugitive glances at each other after he handed out the assignment, he couldn't say for sure, but the four had dutifully trooped off towards the armory. Not giving it a second thought, the Captain headed off to his office to tackle the ever-present paper work required to run the garrison. I was about two hours later, when he heard the sounds of sword fighting in the courtyard, not unusual given their occupation.

Bending his head to study the paper in front of him, he half listened to the comforting ringing of swords. Four, his mind noted professionally and they were good, whichever four were practicing. As an experienced swordsman himself, he could tell by the timing and cadence of the hits. Not just good, he noted, but very good, bordering on excellence even. Familiar.

A suspicion crept into his mind, he dropped his quill as he rose from the chair and headed towards the door. Once on his porch, he leaned on the rail with both hands, elbows locked straight as he scanned the yard. Sure enough, he spotted his four problem children sparring in the snow packed yard. Despite himself, he had to simply watch and marvel at the way the four fought. Poetry in motion, each one using his style to his advantage. Since they knew one another's fighting style so intimately, they had to get creative to gain an advantage. And inventive they were, using anything and everything near them to gain advantage in the mock battle.

A cadet wandered out of the building to watch the legendary four spar, standing with his mouth hanging open in amazement. Treville probably should have called a halt to the battle when a poor chicken became an object of distraction to be used against each other. The chicken, not happy to be part of their game, used its wings to its advantage and escaped the foursome.

But Treville did end it when he realized the four were slowly figthing their way towards the bedazzled cadet. It was so subtle, even he didn't realize what was going on at first. Suddenly, the hapless onlooker went from being a sideline spectator to being in the middle of the battle. The four musketeers, never breaking their rhythm, moved themselves until they were on all four sides of the lad, and proceed to fight around him, with him in the middle.

The Captain had a feeling the boy would need a change of pants by the time the four musketeers got bored with their game. Tréville had no fear for the cadet's safety; the four expert swordsmen could easily fight around him and not a single blade would even brush the cadet's clothes. But the cadet didn't know that and the lad looked about to faint.

"Enough!" Tréville bellowed from his position on the wooden porch.

Being mostly housebroken, the four did cease their sparring at the sound of his command. The cadet sank to the snow-covered ground in a shivering heap that had nothing to do with being cold.

"Is he unhurt?" the Captain demanded as he stomped down the stairs and over to where his reprehensible musketeers stood looking like innocent choir boys.

"Of course," Porthos snorted as if the question was offensive.

"Not a hair out of place," Aramis added with a sniff of his own.

"He is fine," Athos declared with confidence bordering on arrogance.

At that moment, the distressed cadet began vomiting in the trampled snow.

Cocking an eyebrow, Athos added drily. "Mostly."

Scowling and shaking his head, the Captain walked over and helped the wretched lad to his feet after he was done removing breakfast from his stomach. With a fatherly pat on the back, he sent the boy to the barracks to clean up.

"That ain't our fault," Porthos announced after the lad had left. "He needs to have a stronger stomach than that if he is to become a musketeer."

"I seriously doubt when he woke this morning, he expected to be in the middle of a sword fight," Captain Treville declared with a touch of anger. "Just like I did not expect to see you four here when I specifically assigned you to the armory to conduct weapons maintenance.

"But," Athos started in that tone that the Tréville knew only too well. The one that implied the Captain had 'misunderstood' their intent. "That is exactly what we were doing."

He wanted to wipe the smug look off his lieutenant's face, but restrained himself to simply command, "Explain."

"We were ensuring the swords were still in good condition," Athos succinctly explained.

"By sparring?"

"It seemed like a good way to ...test them." With one of the unnerving stares he had in his repertory, Athos stood looking at his superior.

"And the cadet?" Tréville demanded. "Had you slipped."

"Us?" questioned d'Artagnan replied cockily which earned him a glare from the Captain.

"Perhaps..." Athos stated slowly, "That wasn't such a good idea."

"No, it wasn't." The glare he gave his second said it all. He expected better of the man. Athos was the most level headed soldier he knew, except when he wasn't, like now.

"All of you. Back into the armory. Inspect and clean the weapons, but no more testing them out. Am I understood?" the Captain demanded of the four.

Each solemnly bobbed their heads in concurrence. Giving a curt nod to his men, he turned to go when he spotted a messenger coming through the gate. Walking over to the man, he accepted the letter the man was delivering. Glancing at the addressee, he headed back over to the quartet and held the letter out to Athos.

Giving his Captain a puzzled glance, Athos accepted the letter and glanced at the writing on the front. Flipping it over, he only needed to glance at the wax seal before he frowned deeply and shoved it in his pocket.

"I need to...go." With that he spun on his heel and headed for his quarters, leaving his brothers and the Captain wondering what had just happened.

"Who was the letter from?" d'Artagnan asked the Captain who shrugged not knowing.

"One look at the seal and well..." Porthos said looking round at the others. '"He knew it."

"Go. Finish the Armory. Give him some time," the Captain commanded, though not unkindly.

The three did as told, more or less. They went to the armory for thirty minutes, before they headed for Athos' room. They had given Athos 'some time' as the Captain had instructed them, though probably not as long as their commander had in mind, hence d'Artagnan stealthy checking the courtyard before they hurried across it towards the barracks.

—-MMMM—-

Back in his room, Athos slammed the door in a temper. Stripping off his gloves, he tossed them on the table before searching for the nearest wine bottle. Not even looking for a glass, he slugged back a mouthful. After two more generous drinks, he set the bottle on the table, went over to the fire and brought it back to life.

Shedding his weapons belt on the table, he grabbed the bottle of wine again and dropped into a chair by the fire, trying to let is warmth remove some of the tension from his body. Placing the bottle on the floor, he took the letter from his pocket and turned it over and over in his hand. For a moment, he almost thought to toss it in the fire unread, but then thought better of it.

Taking a deep, somewhat shaky breath, started to break the seal, when the guilt began to wash over him. He hadn't delivered the gifts to Pinon and he felt such shame that once again he had failed. They had not gotten back from the Abbey until nearly a week after Christmas. And they had all been ill by the time they arrived home, courtesy of some winter bug. By the time they were better, it was too late to do anything. Pére Noël had long come and gone, but not to Pinon. Shame washed over him again.

The letter in his hand was from the innkeeper, now Mayor of Pinon. Athos was sure it was going to be about the lack of gifts. Maybe accusatory, or even worse, understanding. 'Dear Comte de la Fére. Hope nothing ill has befallen you. Don't worry about the lack of gifts from Pére Noël. Children grow up quickly and understand times are tough. We are blessed to be under the patronage of the de la Fére family and have a liege Lord such as yourself.' Being mad at him he could handle; compassion not, for he didn't deserve it.

"I don't need this!" he growled as he crumbled the unopened letter and tossed it towards the fire. His aim, however, was off for once and the ball of paper landed short of its mark. Picking up the wine bottle, he drowned his sorrows once more.

The knock on his door didn't surprise him at all, only the fact, perhaps, that it hadn't come sooner. The knocked repeated itself, and experience told him even if he ignored it they would not go away. Quickly, he knocked back more of the wine for experience had also taught him they would take his method of coping away from him too. By the time they had knocked the last and final time and barged in, he'd imbibed about half the bottle of what was surprisingly a decent red. As predicted, they came in, took his wine and settled on the floor and the meager furnishings in his room.

"What are we celebrating?" Aramis asked as he stole the wine bottle, raised it to his lips, and drank.

"You left us to do all the dirty work," Porthos grumbled as he dropped onto the floor near the fire and held his hands out to warm them.

Without raising his head, which was lowered, Athos snapped back, "Didn't seem to take you long to finish."

D'Artagnan went to get the bottle of wine from Aramis, but the older musketeer bypassed him and gave it to Porthos on the floor.

Grinning at the youngest musketeer, Porthos lifted the bottle to his lips. "Rank has its privileges," he gloated before drinking.

"You mean age," d'Artagnan retorted with a smirk of his own.

Porthos beckoned the lad and rumbled, "Come over here and repeat that, pup."

"But we digress. We missed you at the armory. You certainly hurried off quickly," Aramis noted turning the conversation back on Athos. He paused to give the swordsman a chance to speak, which of course he did not. "You got a letter?" Aramis prompted.

If anything, Athos somehow managed to fold deeper into himself, conveying the unmistakable attitude of 'go the hell away'.

But Aramis was not one to be denied. "The letter was good news?"

Silence.

"The letter was bad news?"

Silence.

"The letter was not yours?"

Silence.

"The letter was blank?" Aramis stared at Athos then sighed. "What a waste of paper."

D'Artagnan, who had plopped down on the other side of the fire, saw the crumbled letter laying on the edge of the stone hearth. Quietly, he picked it up and held raised it for his brothers to see.

"It would appear," Aramis drawled as he walked over and took the letter from the Gascon, "you didn't open and read your letter." He turned it over in his hand, confirmed it was addressed to Athos, and then flipped it over again and looked at the half-broken seal. "Isn't that your…the Comte de la Fére's… seal?"

Athos raised his head, his green eyes snapping with anger. "Put that down."

"No," Aramis said calmly. "Why don't you want to read it?"

Athos stared at Aramis for a few minutes and the tension in the room grew thick. Finally, he muttered, "It is not important."

Dragging the only other chair in the room closer to the fire, Aramis sat, still holding the letter. "I don't know. Someone, the innkeeper mayor of Pinon I'd guess because of the seal, thought it was important enough to go to the trouble of writing to you."

Dropping his eyes to stare at the fire, Athos muttered, "I told them I wished nothing more to do with them."

"No matter what, your responsibly does not end that easily, Athos," Porthos scolded him. "Say what you want, think what you want, but you have a connection to those people."

"You're the son of nobility. Where is your responsibility to your people," Athos callously spat back, regretting his words the minute they left his mouth.

"I'm the son of a slave and a nobleman, who was raised in the Court of Miracles. Those are my people, no others. And I do take care of them when I can," Porthos said with a touch of anger. "I'm not the first-born son of the Comte de la Fére, one of the oldest noble linages in France. Raised in privilege with a duty and destiny."

"I have no destiny and have long ago sullied my family's duties," Athos declared bitterly. "And that letter just serves as more proof. I don't need to read it to understand I have failed once again."

As his other brothers had been conversing, Aramis had opened the letter and read it. "Judging by what it says here, I'd say you did very well, though I don't know how you arranged it."

All eyes in the room focused on Aramis, but only one person spoke. "You read my letter?"

"You had doubts that I would?" Aramis replied scornfully.

With a sigh, all the anger and bravado drained out of Athos and he slumped in his chair once more. "No, I suppose not. So once more my shame has seen the light of day."

"Shame? What is written here hardly seems shameful to me. Perhaps it is my limited understanding, but I'd say this confirms you are the warm-hearted, generous man I know you to be."

A mirthless chuckle escaped Athos' lips. "Apparently, you hit your head on something hard in the armory for I am none of those things. And Porthos, I am sorry for what I said earlier. I was wrong."

The streetfighter gave him a nod and a small smile and Athos knew he had been forgiven by the kind-hearted man.

"Shall I read the letter aloud and let us all be the judge of what it says?" Aramis asked his brethren, two of which nodded their head in concurrence and one who dissented.

"Majority rules." Smoothing out the paper, Aramis began to read aloud in his melodious voice. "Dear Comte de la Fére. I know you hoped never to hear from us again, and I was respecting your wishes. However, the generosity you showed the children and adults of Pinon this Christmas was so overwhelming, I had to write. Pinon had a very tough year, like most in France from what I hear from travelers. Hunger and sickness were our companions for many months. We lost the very young and the very old this winter season. The bitter cold was not our friend. Then under the guise of Pére Noël, you left such a lavish number of gifts; food, clothes, medicines and toys. Enough to go around for the many in need. I realize you probably are not be thrilled to hear from us, but I had to thank you. God bless you. No matter what you may think, you are a wonderful liege Lord and we are proud to be associated with the great Comte de la Fére. Sincerely, Bertrand."

"Doesn't sound too horrible to me," Porthos said.

Athos's mouth dropped open as he stared at Aramis. "That's not what it says," he blurted out. "It can't."

"I assure you," Aramis stated as he handed over the letter to Athos, who sat up straight in his chair. "It does. I may not have had as vast an education as you, but I'm sure I read that correctly."

Athos' eyes flew over the paper, reading it once, twice, three times as if he expected it to change upon one of the readings.

The musketeers, had learned the previous year that Athos secretly left gifts, in the name of Pére Noël, in the innkeeper of Pinon's barn. In fact, they had helped him make the delivery when an injury almost sidelined him.

"You must have really gotten the gifts to them early this year," d'Artagnan said. "You and Aramis were gone to Le Havre and then the trip to the Abbey. It is good you planned ahead."

A strange expression crossed Athos' face. "But I did not."

"What do you mean you didn't? The letter is proof. You're trying to hide the fact you have a heart and it has gone too far this time." Aramis reached over and snatched the letter. "Here, is the proof."

Slumping once more, Athos muttered to himself. "It can't be true. I mean the letter in the boot…it was from… because he…and the apple." Shaking his head as if that would clear his mind, Athos thought back to his strange dreams. Of a chatty donkey named Gui, who could speak on Christmas Eve. The companion of none other than Pére Noël, who happened to also be the Abbot of the Abbey of Saint-Germain d'Auxerre. A little grey beast who urged him to speak to his horse next Christmas Eve, when all animals are granted the gift of speech and ask him if he liked his name.

Athos slowly raised his eyes and looked at his brothers. "Do you think Roger is a bad name for a horse?" Without waiting for an answer, he dropped his eyes and began muttering to himself again. "Maybe it is an odd name. Maybe I should ask Roger next Christmas Eve."

Frowning at his brother, Aramis inquired, "Just how much wine did you ingest?"

Raising his head, he declared in a commanding tone, "Not enough. Give me back the bottle."

The End


End file.
